THE EXPEDITION OF THE DONNER PARTY

AND ITS TRAGIC FATE

BY ELIZA P. DONNER HOUGHTON

S. O. Houghton

Eliza P. Donner Houghton

PREFACE

Out of the sunshine and shadows of sixty-eight years come these
personal recollections of California—of the period when American
civilization first crossed its mountain heights and entered its
overland gateways.

I seem to hear the tread of many feet, the lowing of many herds, and
know they are the re-echoing sounds of the sturdy pioneer home-seekers.
Travel-stained and weary, yet triumphant and happy, most of them reach
their various destinations, and their trying experiences and valorous
deeds are quietly interwoven with the general history of the State.

Not so, however, the "Donner Party,"
of which my father was captain.
Like fated trains of other epochs whose privations, sufferings, and
self-sacrifices have added renown to colonization movements and served
as danger signals to later wayfarers, that party began its journey with
song of hope, and within the first milestone of the promised land ended
it with a prayer for help. "Help for the helpless in the storms of the
Sierra Nevada Mountains!"

And I, a child then, scarcely four years of age, was too young to do
more than watch and suffer with other children the lesser privations
of our snow-beleaguered camp; and with them survive, because the
fathers and mothers hungered in order that the children might live.

Scenes of loving care and tenderness were emblazoned on my mind. Scenes
of anguish, pain, and dire distress were branded on my brain during
days, weeks, and months of famine,—famine which reduced the party from
eighty-one souls to forty-five survivors, before the heroic relief men
from the settlements could accomplish their mission of humanity.

Who better than survivors knew the heart-rending circumstances of life
and death in those mountain camps? Yet who can wonder that tenderest
recollections and keenest heartaches silenced their quivering lips for
many years; and left opportunities for false and sensational details to
be spread by morbid collectors of food for excitable brains, and for
prolific historians who too readily accepted exaggerated and
unauthentic versions as true statements?

Who can wonder at my indignation and grief in little girlhood, when I
was told of acts of brutality, inhumanity, and cannibalism, attributed
to those starved parents, who in life had shared their last morsels of
food with helpless companions?

Who can wonder that I then resolved that, "When I grow to be a woman I
shall tell the story of my party so clearly that no one can doubt its
truth"? Who can doubt that my resolve has been ever kept fresh in mind,
by eager research for verification and by diligent communication with
older survivors, and rescuers sent to our relief, who answered my many
questions and cleared my obscure points?

And now, when blessed with the sunshine of peace and happiness, I am
finishing my work of filial love and duty to my party and the State of
my adoption, who can wonder that I find on my chain of remembrance
countless names marked, "forget me not"? Among the many to whom I
became greatly indebted in my young womanhood for valuable data and
gracious encouragement in my researches are General William Tecumseh
Sherman, General John A. Sutter, Mrs. Ulysses S. Grant, Mrs. Jessie
Benton Frémont, Honorable Allen Francis,
and C.F. McGlashan, author of
the "History of the Donner Party."

My fondest affection must ever cling to the dear, quaint old pioneer
men and women, whose hand-clasps were warmth and cheer, and whose
givings were like milk and honey to my desolate childhood. For each and
all of them I have full measure of gratitude, often pressed down, and
now overflowing to their sons and daughters, for, with keenest
appreciation I learned that, on June 10, 1910, the order of Native Sons
of the Golden West laid the corner stone of "Donner Monument," on the
old emigrant trail near the beautiful lake which bears the party's
name. There the Native Sons of the Golden West, aided by the Native
Daughters of the Golden West, propose to erect a memorial to all
overland California pioneers.

In a letter to me from Dr. C.W. Chapman, chairman of that monument
committee, is the following forceful paragraph:

"The Donner Party has been selected by us as the
most typical and as the most varied and comprehensive in its
experiences of all the trains that made these wonderful journeys
of thousands of miles, so unique in their daring, so brave, so
worthy of the admiration of man."

ELIZA P. DONNER HOUGHTON.

Los Angeles, California,

September, 1911.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
THE PACIFIC COAST IN 1845—SPEECHES OF SENATOR BENTON AND REPORT OF
CAPT. FRÉMONT—MY FATHER AND HIS FAMILY—INTEREST AWAKENED IN THE NEW
TERRITORY—FORMATION OF THE FIRST EMIGRANT PARTY FROM ILLINOIS TO
CALIFORNIA—PREPARATIONS FOR THE JOURNEY—THE START—ON THE OUTSKIRTS
OF CIVILIZATION

CHAPTER III
IN THE HAUNTS OF THE PAWNEES—LETTERS OF MRS. GEORGE DONNER—HALT AT
FORT BERNARD—SIOUX INDIANS AT FORT LARAMIE

CHAPTER IV
FOURTH OF JULY IN AN EMIGRANT PARTY—OPEN LETTER OF LANSFORD
HASTINGS—GEORGE DONNER ELECTED CAPTAIN OF PARTY BOUND FOR
CALIFORNIA—ENTERING THE GREAT DESERT—INSUFFICIENT SUPPLY OF
FOOD—VOLUNTEERS COMMISSIONED BY MY FATHER TO HASTEN TO SUTTER'S FORT
FOR RELIEF

CHAPTER VII
SNOWBOUND—SCARCITY OF FOOD AT BOTH CAMPS—WATCHING FOR RETURN OF
MCCUTCHEN AND REED

CHAPTER VIII
ANOTHER STORM—FOUR DEATHS IN DONNER CAMP—FIELD MICE USED FOR
FOOD—CHANGED APPEARANCE OF THE STARVING—SUNSHINE—DEPARTURE OF THE
"FORLORN HOPE"—WATCHING FOR RELIEF—IMPOSSIBLE TO DISTURB THE BODIES
OF THE DEAD IN DONNER CAMP—ARRIVAL AND DEPARTURE OF FIRST RELIEF PARTY

CHAPTER IX
SUFFERINGS OF THE "FORLORN HOPE"—RESORT TO HUMAN FLESH—"CAMP OF
DEATH"—BOOTS CRISPED AND EATEN—DEER KILLED—INDIAN Rancheria—THE
"WHITE MAN'S HOME" AT LAST

CHAPTER XI
WATCHING FOR THE SECOND RELIEF PARTY—"OLD NAVAJO"—LAST FOOD IN CAMP

CHAPTER XII
ARRIVAL OF SECOND RELIEF, OR REED-GREENWOOD PARTY—FEW SURVIVORS STRONG
ENOUGH TO TRAVEL—WIFE'S CHOICE—PARTINGS AT DONNER CAMP—MY TWO
SISTERS AND I DESERTED—DEPARTURE OF SECOND RELIEF PARTY

CHAPTER XIII
A FATEFUL CABIN—MRS. MURPHY GIVES MOTHERLY COMFORT—THE GREAT
STORM—HALF A BISCUIT—ARRIVAL OF THIRD RELIEF—"WHERE IS MY BOY?"

CHAPTER XIV
THE QUEST OF TWO FATHERS—SECOND RELIEF IN DISTRESS—THIRD RELIEF
ORGANIZED AT WOODWORTH'S RELAY CAMP—DIVIDES AND ONE HALF GOES TO
SUCCOR SECOND RELIEF AND ITS REFUGEES; AND THE OTHER HALF PROCEEDS TO
DONNER LAKE—A LAST FAREWELL—A WOMAN'S SACRIFICE

CHAPTER XV
SIMON MURPHY, FRANCES, GEORGIA, AND I TAKEN FROM THE LAKE CABINS BY THE
THIRD RELIEF—NO FOOD TO LEAVE—CROSSING THE SNOW—REMNANT OF THE
SECOND RELIEF OVERTAKEN—OUT OF THE SNOW—INCIDENTS OF THE
JOURNEY—JOHNSON'S RANCH—THE SINCLAIR HOME—SUTTER'S FORT

CHAPTER XVI
ELITHA AND LEANNA—LIFE AT THE FORT—WATCHING THE COW PATH—RETURN OF
THE FALLON PARTY—KESEBERG BROUGHT IN BY THEM—FATHER AND MOTHER DID
NOT COME

CHAPTER XVII
ORPHANS—KESEBERG AND HIS ACCUSERS—SENSATIONAL ACCOUNTS OF THE TRAGEDY
AT DONNER LAKE—PROPERTY SOLD AND GUARDIAN APPOINTED—KINDLY
INDIANS—"GRANDPA"—MARRIAGE OF ELITHA

CHAPTER XVIII
"GRANDMA"—HAPPY VISITS—A NEW HOME—AM PERSUADED TO LEAVE IT

CHAPTER XIX
ON A CATTLE RANCH NEAR THE COSUMNE RIVER—"NAME BILLY"—INDIAN GRUB
FEAST

CHAPTER XX
I RETURN TO GRANDMA—WAR RUMORS AT THE FORT—LINGERING HOPE THAT MY
MOTHER MIGHT BE LIVING—AN INDIAN CONVOY—THE BRUNNERS AND THEIR HOME

CHAPTER XXIV
MEXICAN METHODS OF CULTIVATION—FIRST STEAMSHIP THROUGH THE GOLDEN
GATE—"THE ARGONAUTS" OR "BOYS OF '49"—A LETTER FROM THE STATES—JOHN
BAPTISTE—JAKIE LEAVES US—THE FIRST AMERICAN SCHOOL IN SONOMA

CHAPTER XXV
FEVER PATIENTS FROM THE MINES—UNMARKED GRAVES—THE TALES AND TAUNTS
THAT WOUNDED MY YOUNG HEART

NOTE

I wish to express my appreciation of the courtesies and assistance
kindly extended me by the following, in the preparation of the
illustrations for this book: Mr. Lynwood Abbott, "Burr-McIntosh
Magazine," Mr. J.A. Munk, donor of the Munk Library of Arizoniana to
the Southwest Museum, Mr. Hector Alliot, Curator of the Southwest
Museum, the officers and attendants of the Los Angeles Public Library,
Miss Meta C. Stofen, City Librarian, Sonoma, Cal., Miss Elizabeth
Benton Frémont, Mr. C.M. Hunt, Editor "Grizzly Bear," the Dominican
Sisters of St. Catherine's Convent at Benicia, Cal., and Mrs. C.C.
Maynard.

E.P.D.H.

THE EXPEDITION OF THE DONNER PARTY

CHAPTER I

THE PACIFIC COAST IN 1845—SPEECHES OF SENATOR BENTON AND REPORT OF
CAPT. FRÉMONT—MY FATHER AND HIS FAMILY—INTEREST AWAKENED IN THE NEW
TERRITORY—FORMATION OF THE FIRST EMIGRANT PARTY FROM ILLINOIS TO
CALIFORNIA—PREPARATIONS FOR THE JOURNEY—THE START—ON THE OUTSKIRTS
OF CIVILIZATION.

Prior to the year 1845, that great domain lying west of the Rocky
Mountains and extending to the Pacific Ocean was practically unknown.
About that time, however, the spirit of inquiry was awakening. The
powerful voice of Senator Thomas H. Benton was heard, both in public
address and in the halls of Congress, calling attention to Oregon and
California. Captain John C. Frémont's
famous topographical report and
maps had been accepted by Congress, and ten thousand copies ordered to
be printed and distributed to the people throughout the United States.
The commercial world was not slow to appreciate the value of those
distant and hitherto unfrequented harbors. Tales of the equable climate
and the marvellous fertility of the soil spread rapidly, and it
followed that before the close of 1845, pioneers on the western
frontier of our ever expanding republic were preparing to open a wagon
route to the Pacific coast.

After careful investigation and consideration, my father,
George Donner,
and his elder brother, Jacob, decided to join the westward
migration, selecting California as their destination. My mother was in
accord with my father's wishes, and helped him to carry out his plan.

At this time he was sixty-two years of age, large, fine-looking, and in
perfect health. He was of German parentage, born of Revolutionary stock
just after the close of the war. The spirit of adventure, with which he
was strongly imbued, had led him in his youth from North Carolina, his
native State, to the land of Daniel Boone, thence to Indiana, to
Illinois, to Texas, and ultimately back to Illinois, while still in
manhood's prime.

By reason of his geniality and integrity, he was widely known as "Uncle
George" in Sangamon County, Illinois, where he had broken the virgin
soil two and a half miles from Springfield, when that place was a small
village. There he built a home, acquired wealth, and took an active
part in the development of the country round about.

Twice had he been married, and twice bereft by death when he met my
mother, Tamsen Eustis Dozier, then a widow, whom he married May 24,
1839. She was a native of Newburyport, Massachusetts. She was cultured,
and had been a successful teacher and writer. Their home became the
local literary centre after she was installed as its mistress.

My father had two sons and eight daughters when she became his wife;
but their immediate family circle consisted only of his aged parents,
and Elitha and
Leanna,
young daughters of his second marriage, until
July 8, 1840, when blue-eyed Frances Eustis
was born to them. On the
fourth of December, 1841, brown-eyed
Georgia Ann was added to the
number; and on the eighth of March, 1843, I came into this world.

I grew to be a healthy, self-reliant child, a staff to my sister
Georgia, who, on account of a painful accident and long illness during
her first year, did not learn to walk steadily until after I was strong
enough to help her to rise, and lead her to a sand pile near the
orchard, where we played away the bright days of two uneventful years.

With the approaching Winter of 1845 popular interest in the great
territory to the west of us spread to our community.
Maps and reports
were eagerly studied. The few old letters which had been received from
traders and trappers along the Pacific coast were brought forth for
general perusal. The course of the reading society which met weekly at
our home was changed, in order that my mother might read to those
assembled the publications which had kindled in my father and uncle
the desire to migrate to the land so alluringly described. Prominent
among these works were
"Travels Among the Rocky Mountains, Through Oregon and California," by
Lansford W. Hastings, and also the
"Topographical Report, with Maps Attached," by
Captain Frémont, which
has been already mentioned.

The Springfield Journal,
published by Mr. Allen Francis, appeared
with glowing editorials, strongly advocating emigration to the Pacific
coast, and its columns contained notices of companies forming in
Southern and Southwestern States, each striving to be ready to join the
"Great Overland Caravan," scheduled to leave
Independence, Missouri,
for Oregon, early in May, 1846.

Mr. James F. Reed, a well-known resident of Springfield, was among
those who urged the formation of a company to go directly from Sangamon
County to California. Intense interest was manifested; and had it not
been for the widespread financial depression of that year, a large
number would have gone from that vicinity. The great cost of equipment,
however, kept back many who desired to make the long journey.

As it was, James F. Reed, his wife and four children, and Mrs. Keyes,
the mother of Mrs. Reed; Jacob Donner, his wife, and seven children;
and George Donner, his wife, and five children; also their teamsters
and camp assistants,—thirty-two persons all told,—constituted the
first emigrant party from Illinois to California. The plan was to join
the Oregon caravan at Independence, Missouri, continue with it to Fort
Hall, and thence follow Frémont's route to the Bay of San Francisco.

The preparations made for the journey by my parents were practical.
Strong, commodious emigrant wagons were constructed especially for the
purpose. The oxen to draw them were hardy, well trained, and rapid
walkers. Three extra yoke were provided for emergencies. Cows were
selected to furnish milk on the way. A few young beef cattle, five
saddle-horses, and a good watch-dog completed the list of live stock.

After carefully calculating the requisite amount of provisions, father
stored in his wagons a quantity that was deemed more than sufficient to
last until we should reach California. Seed and implements for use on
the prospective farms in the new country also constituted an important
part of our outfit. Nor was that all. There were bolts of cheap cotton
prints, red and yellow flannels, bright-bordered handkerchiefs, glass
beads, necklaces, chains, brass finger rings, earrings, pocket
looking-glasses and divers other knickknacks dear to the hearts of
aborigines. These were intended for distribution as peace offerings
among the Indians. Lastly, there were rich stores of laces, muslins,
silks, satins, velvets and like cherished fabrics, destined to be used
in exchange for Mexican land-grants in that far land to which we were
bound.

My mother was energetic in all these preparations, but her special
province was to make and otherwise get in readiness a bountiful supply
of clothing. She also superintended the purchase of materials for
women's handiwork, apparatus for preserving botanical specimens, water
colors and oil paints, books and school supplies; these latter being
selected for use in the young ladies' seminary which she hoped to
establish in California.

A liberal sum of money for meeting incidental expenses and replenishing
supplies on the journey, if need be, was stored in the compartments of
two wide buckskin girdles, to be worn in concealment about the person.
An additional sum of ten thousand dollars, cash, was stitched between
the folds of a quilt for safe transportation. This was a large amount
for those days, and few knew that my parents were carrying it with
them. I gained my information concerning it in later years from
Mr. Francis, to whom they showed it.

To each of his grown children my father deeded a fair share of his
landed estate, reserving one hundred and ten acres near the homestead
for us five younger children, who in course of time might choose to
return to our native State.

As time went on, our preparations were frequently interrupted by social
obligations, farewell visits, dinners, and other merrymakings with
friends and kindred far and near. Thursday, April 15, 1846, was the day
fixed for our departure, and the members of our household were at work
before the rosy dawn. We children were dressed early in our new linsey
travelling suits; and as the final packing progressed, we often peeped
out of the window at the three big white covered wagons that stood in
our yard.

In the first were stored the merchandise and articles not to be handled
until they should reach their destination; in the second, provisions,
clothing, camp tools, and other necessaries of camp life. The third was
our family home on wheels, with feed boxes attached to the back of the
wagon-bed for Fanny and Margaret, the favorite saddle-horses, which
were to be kept ever close at hand for emergencies.

Early in the day, the first two wagons started, each drawn by three
yoke of powerful oxen, whose great moist eyes looked as though they too
had parting tears to shed. The loose cattle quickly followed, but it
was well on toward noon before the family wagon was ready.

Then came a pause fraught with anguish to the dear ones gathered about
the homestead to say farewell. Each tried to be courageous, but not one
was so brave as father when he bade good-bye to his friends, to his
children, and to his children's children.

I sat beside my mother with my hand clasped in hers, as we slowly moved
away from that quaint old house on its grassy knoll, from the orchard,
the corn land, and the meadow; as we passed through the last pair of
bars, her clasp tightened, and I, glancing up, saw tears in her eyes
and sorrow in her face. I was grieved at her pain, and in sympathy
nestled closer to her side and sat so quiet that I soon fell asleep.
When I awoke, the sun still shone, but we had encamped for the night
on the ground where the State House of Illinois now stands.

Mr. Reed
and family, and my uncle Jacob and family, with their
travelling equipments and cattle, were already settled there. Under
father's direction, our own encampment was soon accomplished. By
nightfall, the duties of the day were ended, and the members of our
party gathered around one fire to spend a social hour.

Presently, the clatter of galloping horses was heard, and shortly
thereafter eight horsemen alighted, and with merry greetings joined our
circle. They were part of the reading society, and had come to hold its
last reunion beside our first camp-fire. Mr. Francis was among them,
and took an inventory of the company's outfit for the benefit of the
readers of
The Springfield Journal.

They piled more wood on the blazing fire, making it a beacon light to
those who were watching from afar; they sang songs, told tales, and for
the time being drove homesickness from our hearts. Then they rode away
in the moonlight, and our past was a sweet memory, our future a
beautiful dream.

William Donner, my half-brother, came to camp early next morning to
help us to get the cattle started, and to accompany us as far as the
outskirts of civilization.

We reached Independence, Missouri, on the eleventh of May, with our
wagons and cattle in prime condition, and our people in the best of
spirits. Our party encamped near that bustling frontier town, and were
soon a part of the busy crowds, making ready for the great prairie on
the morrow. Teams thronged the highways; troops of men, women, and
children hurried nervously about seeking information and replenishing
supplies. Jobbers on the street were crying their wares, anxious to
sell anything or everything required, from a shoestring to a complete
outfit for a four months' journey across the plains. Beads of sweat
clung to the merchants' faces as they rushed to and fro, filling
orders. Brawny blacksmiths, with breasts bared and sleeves rolled high,
hammered and twisted red hot metal into the divers forms necessary to
repair yokes and wagons.

Good fellowship prevailed as strangers met, each anxious to learn
something of those who might by chance become his neighbors in line.

Among the pleasant acquaintances made that day, was
Mr. J.Q. Thornton,
a young attorney from Quincy, Illinois, who, with his invalid wife, was
emigrating to Oregon. He informed us that himself and wife and
ex-Governor Boggs and family, of Missouri, were hourly expecting
Alphonso Boone, grandson of Daniel Boone; and that as soon as Boone and
his family should arrive from Kentucky, they would all hasten on to
join Colonel Russell's
California company, which was already on the
way, but had promised to await them somewhere on the Kansas River.

It was then believed that at least seven thousand emigrant wagons would
go West, through Independence, that season. Obviously the journey
should be made while pasturage and water continued plentiful along the
route. Our little party at once determined to overtake
Colonel Russell
and apply for admission to his train, and for that purpose we resumed
travel early on the morning of May twelfth.

As we drove up Main Street, delayed emigrants waved us a light-hearted
good-bye, and as we approached the building of the American Tract Society,
its agent came to our wagons and put into the hand of each
child a New Testament, and gave to each adult a Bible, and also tracts
to distribute among the heathen in the benighted land to which we were
going. Near the outskirts of town we parted from William Donner, took a
last look at Independence, turned our backs to the morning sun, and
became pioneers indeed to the Far West.

THE CAMP ATTACKED BY INDIANS

OUR STEALTHY FOES

CHAPTER II

During our first few days in the Territory of Kansas we passed over
good roads, and through fields of May blossoms musical with the hum of
bees and the songs of birds. Some of the party rode horseback; others
walked in advance of the train; but each father drove his own family
team. We little folk sat in the wagons with our dolls, watching the
huge white-covered "prairie schooners" coming from Santa Fé to
Independence for merchandise. We could hear them from afar, for the
great wagons were drawn by four or five span of travel-worn horses or
mules, and above the hames of each poor beast was an arch hung with
from three to five clear-toned bells, that jingled merrily as their
carriers moved along, guided by a happy-go-lucky driver, usually
singing or whistling a gleeful tune. Both man and beast looked
longingly toward the town, which promised companionship and revelry to
the one, and rest and fodder to the other.

We overtook similar wagons, heavily laden with goods bound for Santa
Fé. Most of the drivers were shrewd; all of them civil. They were of
various nationalities; some comfortably clad, others in tatters, and a
few in picturesque threadbare costumes of Spanish finery. Those hardy
wayfarers gave us much valuable information regarding the route before
us, and the Indian tribes we should encounter. We were now averaging a
distance of about two and a half miles an hour, and encamping nights
where fuel and water could be obtained.

Early on the nineteenth of May we reached Colonel Russel's camp on
Soldiers' Creek, a tributary of the Kansas River. The following account
of the meeting held by the company after our arrival is from the
journal of Mr. Edwin Bryant, author of
"What I Saw in California":

May 19, 1846. A new census of our party was taken this morning; and
it was found to consist of 98 fighting men, 50 women, 46 wagons, and
350 cattle. Two divisions were made for convenience in travelling.
We were joined to-day by nine wagons from Illinois belonging to Mr.
Reed and Messrs. Donner, highly respectable and intelligent
gentlemen with interesting families. They were received into the
company by a unanimous vote.

Our cattle were allowed to rest that day; and while the men were
hunting and fishing, the women spread the family washings on the boughs
and bushes of that well-wooded stream. We children, who had been
confined to the wagon so many hours each day, stretched our limbs, and
scampered off on Mayday frolics. We waded the creek, made mud pies, and
gathered posies in the narrow glades between the cottonwood, beech, and
alder trees. Colonel Russell
was courteous to all; visited the new
members, and secured their cheerful indorsement of his carefully
prepared plan of travel. He was at the head of a representative body of
pioneers, including lawyers, journalists, teachers, students, farmers,
and day-laborers, also a minister of the gospel, a carriage-maker, a
cabinet-maker, a stonemason, a jeweller, a blacksmith, and women versed
in all branches of woman's work.

The government of these emigrant trains was essentially democratic and
characteristically American. A captain was chosen, and all plans of
action and rules and regulations were proposed at a general assembly,
and accepted or rejected by majority vote. Consequently,
Colonel Russell's
function was to preside over meetings, lead the train, locate
camping ground, select crossings over fordable streams, and direct the
construction of rafts and other expedients for transportation over deep
waters.

A trumpet call aroused the camp at dawn the following morning; by seven
o'clock breakfast had been cooked and served, and the company was in
marching order. The weather was fine, and we followed the trail of the
Kansas Indians, toward the Big Blue.

At nooning our teams stood in line on the road chewing the cud and
taking their breathing spell, while families lunched on the grass in
restful picnic style. Suddenly a gust of wind swept by; the sky turned
a greenish gray; black clouds drifted over the face of the sun; ominous
sounds came rumbling from distant hills, and before our effects could
be collected and returned to cover, a terrific thunderstorm was upon
us.

We were three hours' distance from our evening camp-ground and our
drivers had to walk and face that buffeting storm in order to keep
control of the nervous cattle. It was still raining when we reached the
knoll where we could spend the night. Our men were tired and drenched,
some of them cross; fires were out of the question until fuel could be
cut and brought from the edge of a swamp a mile from camp. When
brought, the green wood smoked so badly that suppers were late and
rather cheerless; still there was spirit enough left in those stalwart
hearts to start some mirth-provoking ditty, or indulge in good-natured
raillery over the joys and comforts of pioneering.

Indians had followed our train all day, and as we had been warned
against leaving temptation within reach, the cattle were corralled
early and their guards doubled. Happily, the night passed without alarm
or losses. The following day we were joined by ex-Governor Boggs and
companions, and lost Mr. Jordan and friends of Jackson, Missouri, who
drew their thirteen wagons out of line, saying that their force was
strong enough to travel alone, and that Captain Russell's company had
become too large for rapid or convenient handling.

We covered fourteen miles that day over a beautiful rolling prairie,
dotted with Indian lodges. Frequently their owners walked or rode
beside our wagons, asking for presents.

Mrs. Kehi-go-wa-chuck-ee was made happy by the gift of a dozen strings
of glass beads, and the chief also kindly accepted a few trinkets and a
contribution of tobacco, and provisions, after which he made the
company understand that for a consideration payable in cotton prints,
tobacco, salt pork, and flour, he himself and his trusted braves would
become escort to the train in order to protect its cattle from harm,
and its wagons from the pilfering hands of his tribesmen. His offer was
accepted, with the condition that he should not receive any of the
promised goods until the last wagon was safe beyond his territory. This
bargain was faithfully kept, and when we parted from the
Indians, they
proceeded to immediate and hilarious enjoyment of the unwonted luxuries
thus earned.

We were now in line with spring storms, which made us victims of
frequent downpours and cyclonic winds. The roads were heavy, and the
banks of streams so steep that often the wagons had to be lowered by
aid of rope and chain. Fortunately our people were able to take these
trying situations philosophically, and were ever ready to enjoy the
novelties of intervening hours of calm and sunshine.

The staid and elderly matrons spent most of their time in their wagons,
knitting or patching designs for quilts. The younger ones and the girls
passed theirs in the saddle. They would scatter in groups over the
plains to investigate distant objects, then race back, and with song
and banter join husband and brother, driving the loose cattle in the
rear. The wild, free spirit of the plain often prompted them to invite
us little ones to seats behind them, and away we would canter with the
breeze playing through our hair and giving a ruddy glow to our cheeks.

Mr. Edwin Bryant,
Mr. and Mrs. Thornton, and my mother were
enthusiastic searchers for botanical and geological specimens. They
delved into the ground, turning over stones and scraping out the
crevices, and zealously penetrated the woods to gather mosses, roots,
and flowering plants. Of the rare floral specimens and perishable
tints, my mother made pencil and water-color studies, having in view
the book she was preparing for publication.

On ascending the bluff overlooking the Big Blue, early on the afternoon
of the twenty-sixth of May, we found the river booming, and the water
still rising. Driftwood and good sized logs were floating by on a
current so strong that all hope of fording it vanished even before its
depth was measured. We encamped on the slope of the prairie, near a
timber of cottonwood, oak, beech, and sycamore trees, where a clear
brook rushed over its stony bed to join the Big Blue. Captain Russell,
with my father and other sub-leaders, examined the river banks for
marks of a ford.

By sunset the river had risen twenty inches and the water at the ford
was two hundred yards in width. A general meeting was called to discuss
the situation. Many insisted that the company, being comfortably
settled, should wait until the waters receded; but the majority
agreeing with the Captain, voted to construct a raft suitable to carry
everything except the live stock, which could be forced to swim.

The assembly was also called upon to settle a difference between two
members of our Oregon contingent, friendly intervention having induced
the disputants to suspend hostilities until their rights should be thus
determined. The assembly, however, instead of passing upon the matter,
appointed a committee to devise a way out of the difficulty. J.Q.
Thornton's work,
"Oregon and California," has this reference to that
committee, whose work was significant as developed by later events:

Ex-Governor Boggs, Mr. James F. Reed,
Mr. George Donner, and others,
myself included, convened in a tent according to appointment of a
general assembly of the emigrants, with the design of preparing a
system of laws for the purpose of preserving order, etc. We proposed
a few laws without, however, believing that they would possess much
authority. Provision was made for the appointment of a court of
arbitrators to hear and decide disputes, and to try offenders
against the peace and good order of the company.

The fiercest thunderstorm that we had yet experienced raged throughout
that night, and had we not been protected by the bluff on one side, and
the timber on the other, our tents would have been carried away by the
gale.

The Big Blue had become so turbulent that work on the prospective craft
was postponed, and our people proceeded to make the most of the
unexpected holiday. Messrs. Grayson and Branham found a bee tree, and
brought several buckets of delicious honey into camp. Mr. Bryant
gathered a quantity of wild peas, and distributed them among the
friends who had spices to turn them into sweet pickles.

The evening was devoted to friendly intercourse, and the camp was merry
with song and melodies dear to loved ones around the old hearthstones.

Meanwhile, Captain Russell had drawn a plan of the craft that should be
built, and had marked the cottonwood trees on the river bank, half a
mile above camp, that would furnish the necessary materials.

Bright and early the following morning, volunteer boat-builders went to
work with a will, and by the close of day had felled two trees about
three and a half feet in diameter, had hollowed out the trunks, and
made of them a pair of canoes twenty-five feet in length. In addition
to this, they had also prepared timbers for the frames to hold them
parallel, and insure the wagon wheels a steady place while being
ferried across the river.

The workers were well satisfied with their accomplishment. There was,
however, sorrow instead of rejoicing in camp, for Mrs. Reed's aged
mother, who had been failing for some days, died that night. At two
o'clock the next afternoon, she was buried at the foot of a monarch
oak, in a neat cottonwood coffin, made by men of the party, and her
grave was marked by a headstone.

GOVERNOR L.W. BOGGS

CORRAL SUCH AS WAS FORMED BY EACH SECTION FOR THE PROTECTION OF ITS CATTLE

The craft being finished on the morning of the thirtieth of May, was
christened Blue Rover, and launched amid cheers of the company.
Though not a thing of beauty, she was destined to fulfil the
expectations of our worthy Captain. One set of guide-ropes held her in
place at the point of embarkation, while swimmers on horseback carried
another set of ropes across the river and quickly made them fast. Only
one wagon at a time could cross, and great difficulty was experienced
in getting the vehicles on and off the boat. Those working near the
bank stood in water up to their arm-pits, and frequently were in grave
peril. By the time the ninth wagon was safely landed, darkness fell.

The only unforeseen delay that had occurred was occasioned by an
awkward slip of the third wagon while being landed. The Blue Rover
groaned under the shock, leaned to one side and swamped one of the
canoes. However, the damage was slight and easily repaired. The next
day was Sunday; but the work had to go on, and the Rev. Mr. Cornwall
was as ready for it as the rest of the toilers.

Much anxiety was experienced when the cattle were forced into the
water, and they had a desperate struggle in crossing the current; but
they finally reached the opposite bank without accident. Each family
embarked in its own wagon, and the last was ferried over in the rain at
nine o'clock that night. The ropes were then detached from the Blue
Rover, and she drifted away in the darkness.

Captain Russell had despatched matters vigorously and tactfully, and
when the labors of that day were completed, still had a word of cheer
for the shivering, hungry travellers, whom he led into camp one mile
west of the memorable Big Blue. Despite stiff joints and severe colds,
all were anxious to resume travel at the usual hour next day, June the
first.

CHAPTER III

IN THE HAUNTS OF THE PAWNEES—LETTERS OF MRS. GEORGE DONNER—HALT AT
FORT BERNARD—SIOUX INDIANS AT FORT LARAMIE.

We were now near the haunts of the Pawnee Indians, reported to be
"vicious savages and daring thieves." Before us also stretched the
summer range of the antelope, deer, elk, and buffalo. The effort to
keep out of the way of the Pawnees, and the desire to catch sight of
the big game, urged us on at a good rate of speed, but not fast enough
to keep our belligerents on good behavior. Before night they had not
only renewed their former troubles, but come to blows, and insulted our
Captain, who had tried to separate them. How the company was relieved
of them is thus told in Mr. Bryant's Journal:

June 2, 1846, the two individuals at variance about their oxen and
wagon were emigrants to Oregon, and some eighteen or twenty wagons
now travelling with us were bound to the same place.

It was proposed in order to relieve ourselves from consequences of
dispute in which we had no interest, that all Oregon emigrants
should, in respectful manner and friendly spirit, be requested to
separate themselves from the California, and start on in advance of
us. The proposition was unanimously carried; and the spirit in which
it was made prevented any bad feeling which otherwise might have
resulted from it. The Oregon emigrants immediately drew their wagons
from the corrals and proceeded on their way.

The Oregon company was never so far in advance that we could not hear
from it, and on various occasions, some of its members sent to us for
medicines and other necessaries.

Our fear of the Pawnees diminished as we proceeded, and met in their
haunts only friendly Indians returning from the hunt, with ponies
heavily laden with packs of jerked meats and dried buffalo tongues. At
least one brave in each party could make himself understood by word or
sign. Many could pronounce the one word "hogmeat," and would show what
they had to exchange for the coveted luxury. Others also begged for
"tobac," and sugar, and generally got a little.

A surprising number of trappers and traders, returning to the United
States with their stocks of peltry, camped near us from time to time.
They were glad to exchange information, and kept us posted in regard to
the condition of the migrants, and the number of wagons on the road in
advance. These rough-looking fellows courteously offered to carry the
company's mail to the nearest post-office. Mr. Bryant and my mother
availed themselves of the kindness, and sent letters to the respective
journals of which they were correspondents.

Another means of keeping in touch with travelling parties in advance
was the accounts that were frequently found written on the bleaching
skulls of animals, or on trunks of trees from which the bark had been
stripped, or yet again, on pieces of paper stuck in the clefts of
sticks driven into the ground close to the trail. Thus each company
left greetings and words of cheer to those who were following. Lost
cattle were also advertised by that means, and many strays or
convalescents were found and driven forward to their owners.

Early June afforded rarest sport to lovers of the chase, and our
company was kept bountifully supplied with choicest cuts of antelope,
deer, and elk meat, also juicy buffalo steak. By the middle of the
month, however, our surroundings were less favorable. We entered a
region of oppressive heat. Clouds of dust enveloped the train. Wood
became scarce, and water had to be stored in casks and carried between
supply points. We passed many dead oxen, also a number of poor cripples
that had been abandoned by their unfeeling owners. Our people, heeding
these warnings, gave our cattle extra care, and lost but few.

Through the kindness of the Hon. Allen Francis, U.S. Consul at
Victoria, British Columbia, for a long term of years, and in his
earlier career editor of
The Springfield Journal, I have in my
possession two letters written by my mother for this paper. They give a
glimpse of the party en route. The interval of time which elapsed
between the date of writing and that of publication indicates how much
faster our trapper letter-carriers must have travelled on horseback
than we had by ox train.

We are now on the Platte, two hundred miles from Fort Laramie. Our
journey so far has been pleasant, the roads have been good, and food
plentiful. The water for part of the way has been indifferent, but
at no time have our cattle suffered for it. Wood is now very scarce,
but "buffalo chips" are excellent; they kindle quickly and retain
heat surprisingly. We had this morning buffalo steaks broiled upon
them that had the same flavor they would have had upon hickory
coals.

Two or three men will go hunting twenty miles from camp; and last
night two of our men lay out in the wilderness rather than ride
their horses after a hard chase.

Indeed, if I do not experience something far worse than I have yet
done, I shall say the trouble is all in getting started. Our wagons
have not needed much repair, and I can not yet tell in what respects
they could be improved. Certain it is, they can not be too strong.
Our preparations for the journey might have been in some respects
bettered.

Bread has been the principal article of food in our camp. We laid in
150 pounds of flour and 75 pounds of meat for each individual, and I
fear bread will be scarce. Meat is abundant. Rice and beans are good
articles on the road; cornmeal, too, is acceptable. Linsey dresses
are the most suitable for children. Indeed, if I had one, it would
be acceptable. There is so cool a breeze at all times on the plains
that the sun does not feel so hot as one would suppose.

We are now four hundred and fifty miles from Independence. Our route
at first was rough, and through a timbered country, which appeared
to be fertile. After striking the prairie, we found a first-rate
road, and the only difficulty we have had, has been in crossing the
creeks. In that, however, there has been no danger.

I never could have believed we could have travelled so far with so
little difficulty. The prairie between the Blue and the Platte
rivers is beautiful beyond description. Never have I seen so varied
a country, so suitable for cultivation. Everything was new and
pleasing; the Indians frequently come to see us, and the chiefs of a
tribe breakfasted at our tent this morning. All are so friendly that
I can not help feeling sympathy and friendship for them. But on one
sheet what can I say?

Since we have been on the Platte, we have had the river on one side
and the ever varying mounds on the other, and have travelled through
the bottom lands from one to two miles wide, with little or no
timber. The soil is sandy, and last year, on account of the dry
season, the emigrants found grass here scarce. Our cattle are in
good order, and when proper care has been taken, none have been
lost. Our milch cows have been of great service, indeed. They have
been of more advantage than our meat. We have plenty of butter and
milk.

We are commanded by Captain Russell, an amiable man.
George Donner
is himself yet. He crows in the morning and shouts out, "Chain up,
boys! chain up!" with as much authority as though he was "something
in particular." John Denton is still with us. We find him useful in
the camp. Hiram Miller and Noah James are in good health and doing
well. We have of the best people in our company, and some, too, that
are not so good.

Buffaloes show themselves frequently.

We have found the wild tulip, the primrose, the lupine, the eardrop,
the larkspur, and creeping hollyhock, and a beautiful flower
resembling the blossom of the beech tree, but in bunches as large as
a small sugar loaf, and of every variety of shade, to red and green.

I botanize and read some, but cook "heaps" more. There are four
hundred and twenty wagons, as far as we have heard, on the road
between here and Oregon and California.

Give our love to all inquiring friends. God bless them. Yours truly,

MRS. GEORGE DONNER.

The following extract is part of a letter which appeared in The
Springfield Journal of July 30, 1846[1]:

SOUTH FORK OF THE NEBRASKA, TEN MILES FROM THE CROSSING,

Tuesday, June 16, 1846

DEAR FRIEND:

To-day, at nooning, there passed, going to the States, seven men
from Oregon, who went out last year. One of them was well acquainted
with Messrs. Ide and Cadden Keyes, the latter of whom, he says, went
to California. They met the advance Oregon caravan about 150 miles
west of Fort Laramie, and counted in all, for Oregon and California
(excepting ours), 478 wagons. There are in our company over 40
wagons, making 518 in all; and there are said to be yet 20 behind.
To-morrow we cross the river, and, by reckoning, will be over 200
miles from Fort Laramie, where we intend to stop and repair our
wagon wheels. They are nearly all loose, and I am afraid we will
have to stop sooner, if there can be found wood suitable to heat the
tires. There is no wood here, and our women and children are out now
gathering "buffalo chips" to burn, in order to do the cooking. These
chips burn well.

MRS. GEORGE DONNER.

On the eighteenth of June, Captain Russell, who had been stricken with
bilious fever, resigned his office of leader. My father and other
subordinate officers also resigned their positions. The assembly
tendered the retiring officials a vote of thanks for faithful service;
and by common consent, ex-Governor Boggs moved at the head of the train
and gave it his name.

FORT LARAMIE AS IT APPEARED WHEN VISITED BY THE DONNER PARTY

CHIMNEY ROCK

We had expected to push on to Fort Laramie without stopping elsewhere,
but when we reached Fort Bernard, a small fur-trading post ten miles
east of Fort Laramie, we learned that the
Sioux Indians were gathering
on Laramie Plain, preparing for war with the Crows, and their allies,
the Snakes; also that the emigrants already encamped there found
pasturage very short. Consequently, our train halted at this more
advantageous point, where our cattle could be sent in charge of herders
to browse along the Platte River, and where the necessary materials
could be obtained to repair the great damage which had been done to our
wagon wheels by the intense heat of the preceding weeks.

Meanwhile, Messrs. Russell and Bryant, with six young bachelor friends,
found an opportunity to finish their journey with pack animals. They
exchanged with traders from New Mexico their wagons and teams for the
requisite number of saddle-horses, mules, pack-saddles, and other
equipment, which would enable them to reach California a month earlier
than by wagon route.

Both parties broke camp at the same hour on the last day of June, they
taking the bridle trail to the right, and we turning to the left across
the ridge to Fort Laramie.

Not an emigrant tent was to be seen as we approached the fort, but
bands of horses were grazing on the plain, and Indians smeared with
war-paint, and armed with hunting knives, tomahawks, bows and arrows,
were moving about excitedly. They did not appear to notice us as we
drove to the entrance of the strongly fortified walls, surrounding the
buildings of the American Fur Company, yet by the time we were ready to
depart, large crowds were standing close to our wagons to receive the
presents which our people had to distribute among them. Many of the
squaws and papooses were gorgeous in white doe skin suits, gaudily
trimmed with beads, and bows of bright ribbons. They formed a striking
contrast to us, travel-stained wayfarers in linsey dresses and
sun-bonnets. Most of the white men connected with the fort had taken
Indian wives and many little children played around their doors.

Mr. Bourdeau, the general manager at the fort, explained to us that the
emigrants who had remained there up to the previous Saturday were on
that day advised by several of the Sioux chiefs, for whom he acted as
spokesman, "to resume their journey before the coming Tuesday, and to
unite in strong companies, because their people were in large force in
the hills, preparing to go out on the war-path in the country through
which the travellers had yet to pass; that they were not pleased with
the whites; that many of their warriors were cross and sulky in
anticipation of the work before them; and that any white persons found
outside the fort upon their arrival might be subject to robbery and
other bad treatment." This advice of the chiefs had awakened such fear
in the travellers that every camp-fire was deserted before sunrise the
ensuing morning. We, in turn, were filled with apprehension, and
immediately hurried onward in the ruts made by the fleeing wagons of
the previous day.

Before we got out of the country of the Sioux, we were overtaken by
about three hundred mounted warriors. They came in stately procession,
two abreast; rode on in advance of our train; halted, and opened ranks;
and as our wagons passed between their lines, the warriors took from
between their teeth, green twigs, and tossed them toward us in pledge
of friendship, then turned and as quietly and solemnly as they had come
to us, rode toward the hills. A great sigh of relief expressed the
company's satisfaction at being again alone; still no one could feel
sure that we should escape a night attack. Our trail led up into the
hills, and we travelled late into the night, and were again on the way
by morning starlight. We heard wolf yelps and owl hoots in the
distance, but were not approached by prowlers of any kind.

When Mr. Francis was appointed U.S. Consul by President
Lincoln, he stored his flies of The Springfield, Illinois, Journal,
and upon his return from Victoria, B.C., found the files almost
destroyed by attic rodents, and my mother's earlier contributions in
verse and prose, as well as her letters while en route to California
were practically illegible.

CHAPTER IV

FOURTH OF JULY IN AN EMIGRANT PARTY—OPEN LETTER OF LANSFORD
HASTINGS—GEORGE DONNER ELECTED CAPTAIN OF PARTY BOUND FOR
CALIFORNIA—ENTERING THE GREAT DESERT—INSUFFICIENT SUPPLY OF
FOOD—VOLUNTEERS COMMISSIONED BY MY FATHER TO HASTEN TO SUTTER'S FORT
FOR RELIEF.

On the second of July we met Mr. Bryant returning to prevail on some
man of our company to take the place of Mr. Kendall of the bridle
party, who had heard such evil reports of California from returning
trappers that his courage had failed, and he had deserted his
companions and joined the Oregon company. Hiram Miller, who had driven
one of my father's wagons from Springfield, took advantage of this
opportunity for a faster method of travel and left with Mr. Bryant.

The following evening we encamped near the re-enforced bridle party,
and on the morning of the Fourth Messrs. Russell and Bryant came over
to help us to celebrate our national holiday. A salute was fired at
sunrise, and later a platform of boxes was arranged in a grove close
by, and by half-past nine o'clock every one in camp was in holiday
attire, and ready to join the procession which marched around the camp
and to the adjacent grove. There, patriotic songs were sung, the
Declaration of Independence was read, and Colonel Russell delivered an
address. After enjoying a feast prepared by the women of the company,
and drinking to the health and happiness of friends and kindred in
reverent silence, with faces toward the east, our guests bade us a
final good-bye and godspeed.

We had on many occasions entertained eastward-bound rovers whose varied
experiences on the Pacific coast made them interesting talkers. Those
who favored California extolled its excellence, and had scant praise
for Oregon. Those who loved Oregon described its marvellous advantages
over California, and urged home-seekers to select it as the wiser
choice; consequently, as we neared the parting of the ways, some of our
people were in perplexity which to choose.

On the nineteenth of July we reached the Little Sandy River and there
found four distinct companies encamped in neighborly groups, among them
our friends, the Thorntons and Rev. Mr. Cornwall. Most of them were
listed for Oregon, and were resting their cattle preparatory to
entering upon the long, dry drive of forty miles, known as "Greenwood's
Cut-off."

There my father and others deliberated over a new route to California.

They were led to do so by "An Open Letter," which had been delivered to
our company on the seventeenth by special messenger on horseback. The
letter was written by Lansford W. Hastings, author of
"Travel Among the Rocky Mountains, Through Oregon and California." It was dated and
addressed, "At the Headwaters of the Sweetwater: To all California
Emigrants now on the Road," and intimated that, on account of war
between Mexico and the United States, the Government of California
would probably oppose the entrance of American emigrants to its
territory; and urged those on the way to California to concentrate
their numbers and strength, and to take the new and better route which
he had explored from Fort Bridger, by way of the south end of Salt
Lake. It emphasized the statement that this new route was nearly two
hundred miles shorter than the old one by way of Fort Hall and the
headwaters of Ogden's River, and that he himself would remain at Fort
Bridger to give further information, and to conduct the emigrants
through to the settlement.

The proposition seemed so feasible, that after cool deliberation and
discussion, a party was formed to take the new route.

While we were preparing to break camp, the last named had begged my
father for a place in our wagon. He was a stranger to our family,
afflicted with consumption, too ill to make the journey on horseback,
and the family with whom he had travelled thus far could no longer
accommodate him. His forlorn condition appealed to my parents and they
granted his request.

All the companies broke camp and left the Little Sandy on the twentieth
of July. The Oregon division with a section for California took the
right-hand trail for Fort Hall; and the Donner Party, the left-hand
trail to Fort Bridger.

After parting from us, Mr. Thornton made the following note in his
journal:

July 20, 1846. The Californians were much elated and in fine
spirits, with the prospect of better and nearer road to the country
of their destination. Mrs. George Donner,
however, was an exception.
She was gloomy, sad, and dispirited in view of the fact that her
husband and others could think of leaving the old road, and confide
in the statement of a man of whom they knew nothing, but was
probably some selfish adventurer.

Five days later the Donner Party reached Fort Bridger, and were
informed by Hastings's agent that he had gone forward as pilot to a
large emigrant train, but had left instructions that all later arrivals
should follow his trail. Further, that they would find "an abundant
supply of wood, water, and pasturage along the whole line of road,
except one dry drive of thirty miles, or forty at most; that they would
have no difficult cañons to pass; and that the road was generally
smooth, level, and hard."

At Fort Bridger, my father took as driver for one of his wagons,
John Baptiste Trubode,
a sturdy young mountaineer, the offspring of a French
father—a trapper—and a Mexican mother. John claimed to have a
knowledge of the languages and customs of various Indian tribes through
whose country we should have to pass, and urged that this knowledge
might prove helpful to the company.

The trail from the fort was all that could be desired, and on the third
of August, we reached the crossing of Webber River, where it breaks
through the mountains into the cañon. There we found a letter from
Hastings stuck in the cleft of a projecting stick near the roadside. It
advised all parties to encamp and await his return for the purpose of
showing them a better way than through the cañon of Webber River,
stating that he had found the road over which he was then piloting a
train very bad, and feared other parties might not be able to get their
wagons through the cañon leading to the valley of the Great Salt Lake.

JOHN BAPTISTE TRUBODE

FRANCES DONNER (MRS. WM. R. WILDER)

GEORGIA ANN DONNER (MRS. W.A. BABCOCK)

He referred, however, to another route which he declared to be much
better, as it avoided the cañon altogether. To prevent unnecessary
delays, Messrs. Reed, Pike,
and Stanton volunteered to ride over the
new route, and, if advisable, bring Hastings back to conduct us to
the open valley. After eight days Mr. Reed returned alone, and reported
that he and his companions overtook Hastings with his train near the
south end of Salt Lake; that Hastings refused to leave his train, but
was finally induced to go with them to the summit of a ridge of the
Wahsatch Mountains and from there point out as best he could, the
directions to be followed.

While exploring on the way back, Mr. Reed had become separated from
Messrs. Pike and Stanton and now feared they might be lost. He himself
had located landmarks and blazed trees and felt confident that, by
making occasional short clearings, we could get our wagons over the new
route as outlined by Hastings. Searchers were sent ahead to look up the
missing men, and we immediately broke camp and resumed travel.

The following evening we were stopped by a thicket of quaking ash,
through which it required a full day's hard work to open a passageway.
Thence our course lay through a wilderness of rugged peaks and
rock-bound cañons until a heavily obstructed gulch confronted us.
Believing that it would lead out to the Utah River Valley, our men
again took their tools and became roadmakers. They had toiled six days,
when W.F. Graves,
wife, and eight children;
J. Fosdick, wife, and
child, and
John Snyder, with their teams and cattle, overtook and
joined our train. With the assistance of these three fresh men, the
road, eight miles in length, was completed two days later. It carried
us out into a pretty mountain dell, not the opening we had expected.

Fortunately, we here met the searchers returning with Messrs. Pike and
Stanton. The latter informed us that we must turn back over our newly
made road and cross a farther range of peaks in order to strike the
outlet to the valley. Sudden fear of being lost in the trackless
mountains almost precipitated a panic, and it was with difficulty that
my father and other cool-headed persons kept excited families from
scattering rashly into greater dangers.

We retraced our way, and after five days of alternate travelling and
road-making, ascended a mountain so steep that six and eight yoke of
oxen were required to draw each vehicle up the grade, and most careful
handling of the teams was necessary to keep the wagons from toppling
over as the straining cattle zigzaged to the summit. Fortunately, the
slope on the opposite side was gradual and the last wagon descended to
camp before darkness obscured the way.

The following morning, we crossed the river which flows from Utah Lake
to Great Salt Lake and found the trail of the Hastings party. We had
been thirty days in reaching that point, which we had hoped to make in
ten or twelve.

The tedious delays and high altitude wrought distressing changes in
Mr. Halloran's condition, and my father and mother watched over him with
increasing solicitude. But despite my mother's unwearying
ministrations, death came on the fourth of September.

Suitable timber for a coffin could not be obtained, so his body was
wrapped in sheets and carefully enclosed in a buffalo robe, then
reverently laid to rest in a grave on the shore of Great Salt Lake,
near that of a stranger, who had been buried by the Hastings party a
few weeks earlier.

Mr. Halloran had appreciated the tender care bestowed upon him by my
parents, and had told members of our company that in the event of his
death on the way, his trunk and its contents, and his horse and its
equipments should belong to Captain Donner. When the trunk was opened,
it was found to contain clothing, keepsakes, a Masonic emblem, and
fifteen hundred dollars in coin.

A new inventory, taken about this time, disclosed the fact that the
company's stock of supplies was insufficient to carry it through to
California. A call was made for volunteers who should hasten on
horseback to Sutter's Fort, procure supplies and, returning, meet the
train en route. Mr. Stanton, who was without family, and
Mr. McCutchen, whose wife and child were in the company, heroically
responded. They were furnished with necessaries for their personal
needs, and with letters to
Captain Sutter, explaining the company's
situation, and petitioning for supplies which would enable it to reach
the settlement. As the two men rode away, many anxious eyes watched
them pass out of sight, and many heartfelt prayers were offered for
their personal safety, and the success of their mission.

In addressing this letter to
Captain Sutter, my father followed the
general example of emigrants to California in those days, for Sutter,
great-hearted and generous, was the man to whom all turned in distress
or emergencies. He himself had emigrated to the United States at an
early age, and after a few years spent in St. Louis, Missouri, had
pushed his way westward to California.

There he negotiated with the Russian Government for its holdings on the
Pacific coast, and took them over when Russia evacuated the country. He
then established himself on the vast estates so acquired, which, in
memory of his parentage, he called New Helvetia. The Mexican
Government, however, soon assumed his liabilities to the Russian
Government, and exercised sovereignty over the territory. Sutter's
position, nevertheless, was practically that of a potentate. He
constructed the well-known fort near the present site of the city of
Sacramento, as protection against Indian depredations, and it became a
trading centre and rendezvous for incoming emigrants.

CHAPTER V

Our next memorable camp was in a fertile valley where we found twenty
natural wells, some very deep and full to the brim of pure, cold water.
"They varied from six inches to several feet in diameter, the soil
around the edges was dry and hard, and as fast as water was dipped out,
a new supply rose to the surface."[2] Grass was plentiful and wood
easily obtained. Our people made much of a brief stay, for though the
weather was a little sharp, the surroundings were restful. Then came a
long, dreary pull over a low range of hills, which brought us to
another beautiful valley where the pasturage was abundant, and more
wells marked the site of good camping grounds.

Close by the largest well stood a rueful spectacle,—a bewildering
guide board, flecked with bits of white paper, showing that the notice
or message which had recently been pasted and tacked thereon had since
been stripped off in irregular bits.

In surprise and consternation, the emigrants gazed at its blank face,
then toward the dreary waste beyond. Presently, my mother knelt before
it and began searching for fragments of paper, which she believed crows
had wantonly pecked off and dropped to the ground.

Spurred by her zeal, others also were soon on their knees, scratching
among the grasses and sifting the loose soil through their fingers.
What they found, they brought to her, and after the search ended she
took the guide board, laid it across her lap, and thoughtfully, began
fitting the ragged edges of paper together and matching the scraps to
marks on the board. The tedious process was watched with spell-bound
interest by the anxious group around her.

The writing was that of Hastings, and her patchwork brought out the
following words:

"2 days—2 nights—hard driving—cross—desert—reach water."

This would be a heavy strain on our cattle, and to fit them for the
ordeal they were granted thirty-six hours' indulgence near the bubbling
waters, amid good pasturage. Meanwhile, grass was cut and stored, water
casks were filled, and rations were prepared for desert use.

We left camp on the morning of September 9, following dimly marked
wagon-tracks courageously, and entered upon the "dry drive," which
Hastings and his agent at Fort Bridger had represented as being
thirty-five miles, or forty at most. After two days and two nights of
continuous travel, over a waste of alkali and sand, we were still
surrounded as far as eye could see by a region of fearful desolation.
The supply of feed for our cattle was gone, the water casks were empty,
and a pitiless sun was turning its burning rays upon the glaring earth
over which we still had to go.

Mr. Reed now rode ahead to prospect for water, while the rest followed
with the teams. All who could walk did so, mothers carrying their babes
in their arms, and fathers with weaklings across their shoulders moved
slowly as they urged the famishing cattle forward. Suddenly an outcry
of joy gave hope to those whose courage waned. A lake of shimmering
water appeared before us in the near distance, we could see the wavy
grasses and a caravan of people moving toward it.

"It may be Hastings!" was the eager shout. Alas, as we advanced, the
scene vanished! A cruel mirage, in its mysterious way, had outlined the
lake and cast our shadows near its shore.

Disappointment intensified our burning thirst, and my good mother gave
her own and other suffering children wee lumps of sugar, moistened with
a drop of peppermint, and later put a flattened bullet in each child's
mouth to engage its attention and help keep the salivary glands in
action.

Then followed soul-trying hours. Oxen, footsore and weary, stumbled
under their yokes. Women, heartsick and exhausted, could walk no
farther. As a last resort, the men hung the water pails on their arms,
unhooked the oxen from the wagons, and by persuasion and force, drove
them onward, leaving the women and children to await their return.
Messrs. Eddy and Graves got their animals to water on the night of the
twelfth, and the others later. As soon as the poor beasts were
refreshed, they were brought back with water for the suffering, and
also that they might draw the wagons on to camp. My father's wagons
were the last taken out. They reached camp the morning of the
fifteenth.

Thirty-six head of cattle were left on that desert, some dead, some
lost. Among the lost were all Mr. Reed's herd, except an ox and a cow.
His poor beasts had become frenzied in the night, as they were being
driven toward water, and with the strength that comes with madness, had
rushed away in the darkness. Meanwhile, Mr. Reed, unconscious of his
misfortune, was returning to his family, which he found by his wagon,
some distance in the rear. At daylight, he, with his wife and children,
on foot, overtook my Uncle Jacob's wagons and were carried forward in
them until their own were brought up.

After hurriedly making camp, all the men turned out to hunt the Reed
cattle. In every direction they searched, but found no clue. Those who
rode onward, however, discovered that we had reached only an oasis in
the desert, and that six miles ahead of us lay another pitiless barren
stretch.

Anguish and dismay now filled all hearts. Husbands bowed their heads,
appalled at the situation of their families. Some cursed Hastings for
the false statements in his open letter and for his broken pledge at
Fort Bridger. They cursed him also for his misrepresentation of the
distance across this cruel desert, traversing which had wrought such
suffering and loss. Mothers in tearless agony clasped their children to
their bosoms, with the old, old cry, "Father, Thy will, not mine, be
done."

It was plain that, try as we might, we could not get back to Fort
Bridger. We must proceed regardless of the fearful outlook.

After earnest consultation, it was deemed best to dig a trench and
cache all Mr. Reed's effects, except such as could be packed into one
wagon, and were essential for daily use. This accomplished, Messrs.
Graves and Breen each loaned him an ox, and these in addition to his
own ox and cow yoked together, formed his team. Upon examination, it
was found that the woodwork of all the wagons had been shrunk and
cracked by the dry atmosphere. One of Mr. Keseberg's and one of my
father's were in such bad condition that they were abandoned, left
standing near those of Mr. Reed, as we passed out of camp.

The first snow of the season fell as we were crossing the narrow strip
of land upon which we had rested and when we encamped for the night on
its boundary, the waste before us was as cheerless, cold, and white as
the winding sheet which enfolds the dead.

At dawn we resumed our toilful march, and travelled until four o'clock
the following morning, when we reached an extensive valley, where
grass and water were plentiful. Several oxen had died during the night,
and it was with a caress of pity that the surviving were relieved of
their yokes for the day. The next sunrise saw us on our way over a
range of hills sloping down to a valley luxuriant with grass and
springs of delicious water, where antelope and mountain sheep were
grazing, and where we saw Indians who seemed never to have met white
men before. We were three days in crossing this magnificent stretch of
country, which we called, "Valley of Fifty Springs." In it, several
wagons and large cases of goods were cached by our company, and secret
marks were put on trees near by, so that they could be recovered,
should their owners return for them.

While on the desert, my father's wagons had travelled last in the
train, in order that no one should stray, or be left to die alone. But
as soon as we reached the mountainous country, he took the lead to open
the way. Uncle Jacob's wagons were always close to ours, for the two
brothers worked together, one responding when the other called for
help; and with the assistance of their teamsters, they were able to
free the trail of many obstructions and prevent unnecessary delays.

From the Valley of Fifty Springs, we pursued a southerly course over
more hills, and through fertile valleys, where we saw Indians in a
state of nudity, who looked at us from a distance, but never approached
our wagons, nor molested any one. On the twenty-fourth of September,
we turned due north and found the tracks of wagon wheels, which guided
us to the valley of "Mary's River," or "Ogden's River," and on the
thirtieth, put us on the old emigrant road leading from Fort Hall. This
welcome landmark inspired us with renewed trust; and the energizing
hope that Stanton and McCutchen would soon appear, strengthened our
sorely tried courage. This day was also memorable, because it brought
us a number of Indians who must have been Frémont's guides, for they
could give information, and understand a little English. They went into
camp with us, and by word and sign explained that we were still far
from the sink of Mary's River, but on the right trail to it.

After another long day's drive, we stopped on a mountain-side close to
a spring of cold, sweet water. While supper was being prepared, one of
the fires crept beyond bounds, spread rapidly, and threatened
destruction to part of our train. At the critical moment two strange
Indians rushed upon the scene and rendered good service. After the fire
was extinguished, the Indians were rewarded, and were also given a
generous meal at the tent of Mr. Graves. Later, they settled themselves
in friendly fashion beside his fire and were soon fast asleep. Next
morning, the Indians were gone, and had taken with them a new shirt and
a yoke of good oxen belonging to their host.

Within the week, Indians again sneaked up to camp, and stole one of Mr.
Graves's saddle-horses. These were trials which made men swear
vengeance, yet no one felt that it would be safe to follow the
marauders. Who could know that the train was not being stealthily
followed by cunning plunderers who would await their chance to get away
with the wagons, if left weakly guarded?

Conditions now were such that it seemed best to divide the train into
sections and put each section under a sub-leader. Our men were well
equipped with side arms, rifles, and ammunition; nevertheless, anxious
moments were common, as the wagons moved slowly and singly through
dense thickets, narrow defiles, and rugged mountain gorges, one section
often being out of sight of the others, and each man realizing that
there could be no concerted action in the event of a general attack;
that each must stay by his own wagon and defend as best he could the
lives committed to his care. No one rode horseback now, except the
leaders, and those in charge of the loose cattle. When darkness
obscured the way, and after feeding-time, each section formed its
wagons into a circle to serve as cattle corral, and night watches were
keenly alert to give a still alarm if anything unusual came within
sight or sound.

Day after day, from dawn to twilight, we moved onward, never stopping,
except to give the oxen the necessary nooning, or to give them drink
when water was available. Gradually, the distance between sections
lengthened, and so it happened that the wagons of my father and my
uncle were two days in advance of the others, on the eighth of October,
when Mr. Reed, on horseback, overtook us. He was haggard and in great
tribulation. His lips quivered as he gave substantially the following
account of circumstances which had made him the slayer of his friend,
and a lone wanderer in the wilderness.

On the morning of October 5, when Mr. Reed's section broke camp, he and
Mr. Eddy ventured off to hunt antelope, and were shot at a number of
times by Indians with bows and arrows. Empty-handed and disappointed,
the two followed and overtook their companions about noon, at the foot
of a steep hill near "Gravelly Ford," where the teams had to be doubled
for the ascent. All the wagons, except Pike's and Reed's, and one of
Graves's in charge of
John Snyder, had already been taken to the top.
Snyder was in the act of starting his team, when Milton Elliot, driving
Reed's oxen, with Eddy's in the lead, also started. Suddenly, the Reed
and Eddy cattle became unmanageable, and in some way got mixed up with
Snyder's team. This provoked both drivers, and fierce words passed
between them. Snyder declared that the Reed team ought to be made to
drag its wagon up without help. Then he began to beat his own cattle
about the head to get them out of the way.

Mr. Reed attempted to remonstrate with him for his cruelty, at which
Snyder became more enraged, and threatened to strike both Reed and
Elliot with his whip for interfering. Mr. Reed replied sharply that
they would settle the matter later. This, Synder took as a threat, and
retorted, "No, we'll settle it right here," and struck Reed over the
head with the butt end of his whip, cutting an ugly scalp wound.

Mrs. Reed, who rushed between the two men for the purpose of separating
them, caught the force of the second blow from Snyder's whip on her
shoulder. While dodging the third blow, Reed drew his hunting knife and
stabbed Snyder in the left breast. Fifteen minutes later, John Snyder,
with his head resting on the arm of William Graves, died, and Mr. Reed
stood beside the corpse, dazed and sorrowful.

Near-by sections were immediately called into camp, and gloom,
consternation, and anger pervaded it. Mr. Reed and family were taken to
their tent some distance from the others and guarded by their friends.
Later, an assembly was convened to decide what should be done. The
majority declared the deed murder, and demanded retribution. Mr. Eddy
and others pleaded extenuating circumstances and proposed that the
accused should leave the camp. After heated discussion this compromise
was adopted, the assembly voting that Mr. Reed should be banished from
the company.

Mr. Reed maintained that the deed was not prompted by malice, that he
had acted in self-defence and in defence of his wife; and that he would
not be driven from his helpless, dependent family. The assembly
promised that the company would care for his family, and limited his
stay in camp. His wife, fearing the consequence of noncompliance with
the sentence, begged him to abide by it, and to push on to the
settlement, procure food and assistance, and return for her and their
children. The following morning, after participating in the funeral
rites over the lamented dead, Mr. Reed took leave of his friends and
sorrowing family and left the camp.

The group around my father's wagon were deeply touched by Mr. Reed's
narrative. Its members were friends of the slain and of the slayer.
Their sympathies clustered around the memory of the dead, and clung to
the living. They deplored the death of a fellow traveller, who had
manfully faced many hardships, and was young, genial, and full of
promise. They regretted the act which took from the company a member
who had been prominent in its organization, had helped to formulate its
rules, and had, up to that unfortunate hour, been a co-worker with the
other leading spirits for its best interests. It was plain that the
hardships and misfortunes of the journey had sharpened the tempers of
both men, and the vexations of the morning had been too much for the
overstrained nerves.

Mr. Reed breakfasted at our tent, but did not continue his journey
alone. Walter Herron, one of my father's helpers, decided to accompany
him, and after hurried preparations, they went away together, bearing
an urgent appeal from my father to Captain Sutter for necessary teams
and provisions to carry the company through to California, also his
personal pledge in writing that he would be responsible for the payment
of the debt as soon as he should reach the settlement. My father
believed the two men would reach their destination long before the
slowly moving train.

Immediately after the departure of Messrs. Reed and Herron, our wagons
moved onward. Night overtook us at a gruesome place where wood and feed
were scarce and every drop of water was browned by alkali. There,
hungry wolves howled, and there we found and buried the bleaching bones
of Mr. Sallé, a member of the Hastings train, who had been shot by
Indians. After his companions had left his grave, the savages had
returned, dug up the body, robbed it of its clothing, and left it to
the wolves.

At four o'clock the following morning, October 10, the rest of the
company, having travelled all night, drove into camp. Many were in a
state of great excitement, and some almost frenzied by the physical and
mental suffering they had endured. Accounts of the Reed-Snyder tragedy
differed somewhat from that we had already heard. The majority held
that the assembly had been lenient with Mr. Reed and considerate for
his family; that the action taken had been largely influenced by rules
which Messrs. Reed, Donner, Thornton, and others had suggested for the
government of Colonel Russell's train, and that there was no occasion
for criticism, since the sentence was for the transgression, and not
for the individual.

The loss of aged Mr. Hardcoop, whose fate was sealed soon after the
death of John Synder, was the subject of bitter contention. The old man
was travelling with the Keseberg family, and, in the heavy sand, when
that family walked to lighten the load, he was required to do likewise.
The first night after leaving Gravelly Ford, he did not come into camp
with the rest. The company, fearing something amiss, sent a man on
horseback to bring him in. He was found five miles from camp,
completely exhausted and his feet in a terrible condition.

The following morning, he again started with Keseberg, and when the
section had been under way only a short time, the old man approached
Mr. Eddy and begged for a place in some other wagon, saying he was sick
and exhausted, and that Keseberg had put him out to die. The road was
still through deep, loose sand, and Mr. Eddy told him if he would only
manage to go forward until the road should be easier on the oxen, he
himself would take him in. Hardcoop promised to try, yet the roads
became so heavy that progress was yet slower and even the small
children were forced to walk, nor did any one see when Mr. Hardcoop
dropped behind.

Mr. Eddy had the first watch that night, and kept a bright fire burning
on the hillside in hopes that it would guide the belated into camp.
Milton Elliot went on guard at midnight, and kept the fire till
morning, yet neither sign nor sound of the missing came over that
desolate trail.

In vain the watchers now besought Keseberg to return for Hardcoop. Next
they applied to Messrs. Graves and Breen, who alone had saddle horses
able to carry the helpless man, but neither of them would risk his
animals again on that perilous road. In desperation,
Messrs. William Pike,
Milton Elliot, and William Eddy proposed to go out afoot and
carry him in, if the wagons would wait. Messrs. Graves and Breen,
however, in language so plain and homely that it seemed heartless,
declared that it was neither the voice of common sense, nor of humanity
that asked the wagons to wait there in the face of danger, while three
foolhardy men rushed back to look for a helpless one, whom they had
been unable to succor on the previous day, and for whom they could make
no provision in the future, even if they should succeed then in
snatching him from the jaws of death.

This exposition of undeniable facts defeated the plans of the would-be
rescuers, yet did not quiet their consciences. When the section halted
at noon, they again begged, though in vain, for horses which might
enable them to do something for their deserted companion.

My father listened thoughtfully to the accounts of that harrowing
incident, and although he realized that death must have ended the old
man's sufferings within a few hours after he dropped by the wayside, he
could not but feel deeply the bitterness of such a fate.

Who could peer into the near future and read between its lines the
greater suffering which Mr. Hardcoop had escaped, or the trials in
store for us?

We were in close range of ambushed savages, lying in wait for spoils.
While the company were hurrying to get into marching order, Indians
stole a milch cow and several horses belonging to Mr. Graves.
Emboldened by success, they made a raid on our next camp and stampeded
a bunch of eighteen horned cattle belonging to
Mr. Wolfinger and my
father and Uncle Jacob, and also flesh-wounded several poor beasts with
arrows. These were more serious hindrances than we had yet experienced.
Still, undaunted by the alarming prospects before us, we immediately
resumed travel with cows under yoke in place of the freshly injured
oxen.

All who managed to get beyond the sink of Ogden's River before midnight
of October 12, reached Geyser Springs without further molestation, but
the belated, who encamped at the sink were surprised at daylight by the
Indians, who, while the herders were hurriedly taking a cup of coffee,
swooped down and killed twenty-one head of cattle. Among the number
were all of Mr. Eddy's stock, except an ox and a cow that would not
work together. Maddened by his appalling situation, Eddy called for
vengeance on his despoilers, and would have rushed to certain death, if
the breaking of the lock of his rifle at the start had not stopped him.

Sullen and dejected, he cached the contents of his wagons, and with
a meagre supply of food in a pack on his back, he and his wife, each
carrying a child, set forth to finish the journey on foot. To add to
their discomfort, they saw Indians on adjacent hills dancing and
gesticulating in savage delight. In relating the above occurrence
after the journey was finished, Mr. Eddy declared that no language
could portray the desolation and heartsick feeling, nor the physical
and mental torture which he and his wife experienced while
travelling between the sink of Ogden's River and the Geyser
Springs.[3]

It was during that trying week that Mr. Wolfinger mysteriously
disappeared. At the time, he and Keseberg, with their wagons, were at
the rear of the train, and their wives were walking in advance with
other members of the company. When camp was made, those two wagons were
not in sight, and after dark the alarmed wives prevailed on friends to
go in search of their missing husbands. The searchers shortly found
Keseberg leisurely driving toward camp. He assured them that Wolfinger
was not far behind him, so they returned without further search.

All night the frantic wife listened for the sound of the coming of her
husband, and so poignant was her grief that at break of day, William
Graves, Jr., and two companions went again in search of Mr. Wolfinger.
Five or six miles from camp, they came upon his tenantless wagon, with
the oxen unhooked and feeding on the trail near-by. Nothing in the
wagon had been disturbed, nor did they find any sign of struggle, or of
Indians. After a diligent search for the missing man, his wagon and
team was brought to camp and restored to Mrs. Wolfinger, and she was
permitted to believe that her husband had been murdered by Indians and
his body carried off. Nevertheless, some suspected Keseberg of having
had a hand in his disappearance, as he knew that Mr. Wolfinger carried
a large sum of money on his person.

Three days later Rhinehart and Spitzer, who had not been missed, came
into camp, and Mrs. Wolfinger was startled to recognize her husband's
gun in their possession. They explained that they were in the wagon
with Mr. Wolfinger when the Indians rushed upon them, drove them off,
killed Wolfinger and burned the wagon. My father made a note of this
conflicting statement to help future investigation of the case.

At Geyser Springs, the company cached valuable goods, among them
several large cases of books and other heavy articles belonging to my
father. As will be seen later, the load in our family wagon thus
lightened through pity for our oxen, also lessened the severity of an
accident which otherwise might have been fatal to Georgia and me.

On the nineteenth of October, near the present site of Wadsworth,
Nevada, we met Mr. Stanton returning from Sutter's Fort with two Indian
herders driving seven mules, laden with flour and jerked beef. Their
arrival was hailed with great joy, and after a brief consultation with
my father, Stanton and his Indians continued toward the rear, in order
to distribute first to those most in need of provisions, also that the
pack animals might be the sooner set apart to the use of those whose
teams had given out, or had been destroyed by Indians.

MARCH OF THE CARAVAN

UNITED STATES TROOPS CROSSING THE DESERT

Mr. Stanton had left Mr. McCutchen sick at Sutter's Fort. He brought
information also concerning Messrs. Reed and Herron, whom he had met
in the Sacramento valley. At the time of meeting, they were quite a
distance from the settlement, had been without food three days, and Mr.
Reed's horse was completely worn out. Mr. Stanton had furnished Mr.
Reed with a fresh mount, and provisions enough to carry both men to
Sutter's Fort.

In camp that night, Mr. Stanton outlined our course to the settlement,
and in compliance with my father's earnest wish, consented to lead the
train across the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Frost in the air and snow on
the distant peaks warned us against delays; yet, notwithstanding the
need of haste, we were obliged to rest our jaded teams. Three yoke of
oxen had died from exhaustion within a week, and several of those
remaining were not in condition to ascend the heavy grades before them.

On the twentieth, Mr. Pike met death in his own tent by the accidental
discharge of a six-shooter in the hands of Mr. Foster, his
brother-in-law. He left a young wife, and two small children, Naomi,
three years of age, and Catherine, a babe in arms. His loss was keenly
felt by the company, for he was highly esteemed.

We broke camp on the twenty-second, and my father and uncle took our
wagons to the rear of the train in order to favor our cattle, and also
to be near families whose teams might need help in getting up the
mountains. That day we crossed the Truckee River for the forty-ninth
and last time in eighty miles, and encamped for the night at the top
of a high hill, where we received our last experience of Indian
cruelty. The perpetrator was concealed behind a willow, and with savage
vim and well trained hand, sent nineteen arrows whizzing through the
air, and each arrow struck a different ox. Mr. Eddy caught him in the
act; and as he turned to flee, the white man's rifle ball struck him
between the shoulders and pierced his body. With a spring into the air
and an agonizing shriek, he dropped lifeless into the bushes below.
Strange, but true, not an ox was seriously hurt!

The train took the trail early next morning, expecting to cross the
summit of the Sierras and reach California in less than two weeks.

The following circumstances, which parted us forever from the train
which father had led through so many difficulties, were told me by my
sister, Mrs. Elitha C. Wilder, now of Bruceville, California:

Our five Donner wagons, and Mrs. Wolfinger's wagon, were a day or
more behind the train, and between twelve and sixteen miles from the
spot where we later made our winter camp, when an accident happened
which nearly cost us your life, and indirectly prevented our
rejoining the train. Your mother and Frances were walking on ahead;
you and Georgia were asleep in the wagon; and father was walking
beside it, down a steep hill. It had almost reached the base of the
incline when the axle to the fore wheels broke, and the wagon tipped
over on the side, tumbling its contents upon you two children.
Father and uncle, in great alarm, rushed to your rescue. Georgia was
soon hauled out safely through the opening in the back of the wagon
sheets, but you were nowhere in sight, and father was sure you were
smothering because you did not answer his call. They worked
breathlessly getting things out, and finally uncle came to your limp
form. You could not have lasted much longer, they said. How
thankful we all were that our heaviest boxes had been cached at
Geyser Springs!

Much as we felt the shock, there was little time for
self-indulgence. Never were moments of greater importance; for while
father and uncle were hewing a new axle, two men came from the head
of the company to tell about the snow. It was a terrible piece of
news!

Those men reported that on the twenty-eighth of that month the larger
part of the train had reached a deserted cabin near Truckee Lake (the
sheet of water now known as Donner Lake) at the foot of Frémont's Pass
in the main chain of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The following morning
they had proceeded to within three miles of the summit; but finding
snow there five feet in depth, the trail obliterated, and no place for
making camp, they were obliged to return to the spot they had left
early in the day. There, they said, the company had assembled to
discuss the next move, and great confusion prevailed as the excited
members gave voice to their bitterest fears. Some proposed to abandon
the wagons and make the oxen carry out the children and provisions;
some wanted to take the children and rations and start out on foot; and
some sat brooding in dazed silence through the long night.

The messengers further stated that on the thirtieth, with Stanton as
leader, and despite the falling sleet and snow, the forward section of
the party united in another desperate effort to cross the summit, but
encountered deeper drifts and greater difficulties. As darkness crept
over the whitened waste, wagons became separated and lodged in the
snow; and all had to cling to the mountain-side until break of day,
when the train again returned to its twice abandoned camp, having been
compelled, however, to leave several of the wagons where they had
become stalled. The report concluded with the statement that the men at
once began log-cutting for cabins in which the company might have to
pass the winter.

After the messengers left, and as father and Uncle Jacob were hastening
preparations for our own departure, new troubles beset us. Uncle was
giving the finishing touches to the axle, when the chisel he was using
slipped from his grasp, and its keen edge struck and made a serious
wound across the back of father's right hand which was steadying the
timber. The crippled hand was carefully dressed, and to quiet uncle's
fears and discomfort, father made light of the accident, declaring that
they had weightier matters for consideration than cuts and bruises. The
consequences of that accident, however, were far more wide-reaching
than could have been anticipated.

Up and up we toiled until we reached an altitude of six thousand feet,
and were within about ten miles of our companions at the lake, when the
intense cold drove us into camp on Prosser Creek in Alder Creek Valley,
a picturesque and sheltered nook two and a half miles in length and
three-quarters of a mile in width. But no one observed the picturesque
grandeur of the forest-covered mountains which hem it in on the north
and west; nor that eastward and southward it looks out across plateaus
to the Washoe Mountains twenty miles away.

A piercing wind was driving storm-clouds toward us, and those who
understood their threatening aspect realized that twenty-one persons,
eight of them helpless children, were there at the mercy of the
pitiless storm-king.

The teams were hurriedly unhooked, the tents pitched, and the men and
the women began collecting material for more suitable quarters. Some
felled trees, some lopped off the branches, and some, with oxen,
dragged the logs into position. There was enough building material on
the ground for a good sized foundation four logs deep, when night
stopped the work. The moon and stars came out before we went to bed,
yet the following morning the ground was covered with snow two or three
feet in depth, which had to be shovelled from the exposed beds before
their occupants could rise.

I remember well that new day. All plans for log cabins had to be
abandoned. There was no sheltered nook for shivering children, so
father lifted Georgia and me on to a log, and mother tucked a buffalo
robe around us, saying, "Sit here until we have a better place for
you." There we sat snug and dry, chatting and twisting our heads about,
watching the hurrying, anxious workers. Those not busy at the wagons
were helping the builders to construct a permanent camp.

They cleared a space under a tall pine tree and reset the tent a few
feet south of its trunk, facing the sunrise. Then, following the
Indian method as described by
John Baptiste, a rude semi-circular hut
of poles was added to the tent, the tree-trunk forming part of its
north wall, and its needled boughs, the rafters and cross-pieces to the
roof. The structure was overlaid so far as possible with pieces of
cloth, old quilts, and buffalo robes, then with boughs and branches of
pine and tamarack. A hollow was scooped in the ground near the tree for
a fireplace, and an opening in the top served as chimney and
ventilator. One opening led into the tent and another served as an
outer door.

To keep the beds off the wet earth, two rows of short posts were driven
along the sides in the tent, and poles were laid across the tops, thus
forming racks to support the pine boughs upon which the beds should be
made. While this was being done, Elitha, Leanna, and Mrs. Wolfinger
were bringing poles and brush with which to strengthen and sheath the
tent walls against wind and weather. Even Sister Frances looked tall
and helpful as she trudged by with her little loads.

The combination of tent and hut was designed for my father and family
and Mrs. Wolfinger. The teamsters,
Samuel Shoemaker, Joseph Rhinehart,
James Smith,
and John Baptiste, built their hut in Indian wigwam
fashion. Not far from us, across the stream, braced against a log, was
reared a mixed structure of brush and tent for use of Uncle Jacob, Aunt
Betsy, and William and Solomon Hook
(Aunt Betsy's sons by a former
husband), and their five small children, George, Mary, Isaac, Lewis,
and Samuel Donner.

Before we two could leave our perch, the snow was falling faster and in
larger flakes. It made pictures for Georgia and me upon the branches of
big and little trees; it gathered in a ridge beside us upon the log; it
nestled in piles upon our buffalo robe; and by the time our quarters
were finished, it was veiling Uncle Jacob's from view. Everything
within was cold, damp, and dreary, until our tired mother and elder
sisters built the fire, prepared our supper, and sent us to bed, each
with a lump of loaf sugar as comforter.

CHAPTER VII

SNOWBOUND—SCARCITY OF FOOD AT BOTH CAMPS—WATCHING FOR RETURN OF
M'CUTCHEN AND REED.

When we awoke the following morning, little heaps of snow lay here and
there upon the floor. No threshold could be seen, only a snow-bank
reaching up to the white plain beyond, where every sound was muffled,
and every object was blurred by falling flakes.

Father's face was very grave. His morning caress had all its wonted
tenderness, but the merry twinkle was gone from his eye, and the
gladsome note from his voice. For eight consecutive days, the fatal
snow fell with but few short intermissions. Eight days, in which there
was nothing to break the monotony of torturing, inactive endurance,
except the necessity of gathering wood, keeping the fires, and cutting
anew the steps which led upward, as the snow increased in depth. Hope
well-nigh died within us.

All in camp fared alike, and all were on short rations. Three of our
men became dispirited, said that they were too weak and hungry to
gather wood, and did not care how soon death should put an end to their
miseries.

The out-of-door duties would have fallen wholly upon my Aunt Betsy's
two sons and on John Baptiste and on my crippled father, had the women
lost their fortitude. They, however, hid their fears from their
children, even from each other, and helped to gather fuel, hunt cattle,
and keep camp.

Axes were dull, green wood was hard to cut, and harder to carry,
whether through loose, dry snow, or over crusts made slippery by sleet
and frost. Cattle tracks were covered over. Some of the poor creatures
had perished under bushes where they sought shelter. A few had become
bewildered and strayed; others were found under trees in snow pits,
which they themselves had made by walking round and round the trunks to
keep from being snowed under. These starvelings were shot to end their
sufferings, and also with the hope that their hides and fleshless bones
might save the lives of our snow-beleaguered party. Every part of the
animals was saved for food. The locations of the carcasses were marked
so that they could be brought piece by piece into camp; and even the
green hides were spread against the huts to serve in case of need.

After the storm broke, John Baptiste was sent with a letter from my
mother to the camp near the lake. He was absent a number of days, for
upon his arrival there, he found a party of fourteen ready to start
next morning, on foot, across the summit. He joined it, but after two
days of vain effort, the party returned to camp, and he came back to us
with an answer to the letter he had delivered.

We then learned that most of those at the lake were better housed than
we. Some in huts, and the rest in three log structures, which came to
be known respectively as the Murphy, Graves, and Breen cabins. The last
mentioned was the relic of earlier travellers[4] and had been grizzled
by the storms of several winters. Yet, despite their better
accommodations, our companions at the lake were harassed by fears like
ours. They too were short of supplies. The game had left the mountains,
and the fish in the lake would not bite.

Different parties, both with and without children, had repeatedly
endeavored to force their way out of that wilderness of snow, but each
in turn had become confused, and unconsciously moved in a circle back
to camp. Several persons had become snow-blind. Every landmark was
lost, even to Stanton, who had twice crossed the range.

All now looked to the coming of
McCutchen and
Reed for deliverance. We
had every reason to expect them soon, for each had left his family with
the company, and had promised to return with succor. Moreover, Stanton
had brought tidings that the timely assistance of himself and comrade
had enabled Reed to reach Sutter's Fort in safety; and that McCutchen
would have accompanied him back, had he not been detained by illness.

Well, indeed, was it that we could not know that at the very time we
were so anxiously awaiting their arrival, those two men, after
struggling desperately to cross the snows, were finally compelled to
abandon the attempt, bury the precious food they had striven to bring
us, and return to the settlement.

It was also well that we were unaware of their baffling fears, when the
vigorous efforts incited by the memorial presented by Reed to Commodore
Stockton, the military Governor of California, were likewise frustrated
by mountain storms.

Built by Townsend party in 1844. See McGlashan's "History
of the Donner Party."

CHAPTER VIII

ANOTHER STORM—FOUR DEATHS IN DONNER CAMP—FIELD MICE USED FOR
FOOD—CHANGED APPEARANCE OF THE STARVING—SUNSHINE—DEPARTURE OF THE
"FORLORN HOPE"—WATCHING FOR RELIEF—IMPOSSIBLE TO DISTURB THE BODIES
OF THE DEAD IN DONNER CAMP—ARRIVAL AND DEPARTURE OF THE FIRST RELIEF
PARTY.

Meanwhile with us in the Sierras, November ended with four days and
nights of continuous snow, and December rushed in with a wild,
shrieking storm of wind, sleet, and rain, which ceased on the third.
The weather remained clear and cold until the ninth, when Milton Elliot
and Noah James came on snowshoes to Donner's camp, from the lake
cabins, to ascertain if their captain was still alive, and to report
the condition of the rest of the company.

Before morning, another terrific storm came swirling and whistling down
our snowy stairway, making fires unsafe, freezing every drop of water
about the camp, and shutting us in from the light of heaven. Ten days
later Milton Elliot alone fought his way back to the lake camp with
these tidings: "Jacob Donner,
Samuel Shoemaker, Joseph Rhinehart, and
James Smith are dead, and the others in a low condition."[5]

Uncle Jacob, the first to die, was older than my father, and had been
in miserable health for years before we left Illinois. He had gained
surprisingly on the journey, yet quickly felt the influence of
impending fate, foreshadowed by the first storm at camp. His courage
failed. Complete prostration followed.

My father and mother watched with him during the last night, and the
following afternoon helped to lay his body in a cave dug in the
mountain side, beneath the snow. That snow had scarcely resettled when
Samuel Shoemaker's life ebbed away in happy delirium. He imagined
himself a boy again in his father's house and thought his mother had
built a fire and set before him the food of which he was fondest.

But when Joseph Rhinehart's end drew near, his mind wandered, and his
whitening lips confessed a part in Mr. Wolfinger's death; and my
father, listening, knew not how to comfort that troubled soul. He could
not judge whether the self-condemning words were the promptings of a
guilty conscience, or the ravings of an unbalanced mind.

Like a tired child falling asleep, was James Smith's death; and Milton
Elliot, who helped to bury the four victims and then carried the
distressing report to the lake camp, little knew that he would soon be
among those later called to render a final accounting. Yet it was even
so.

Our camp having been thus depleted by death, Noah James, who had been
one of my father's drivers, from Springfield until we passed out of the
desert, now cast his lot again with ours, and helped John Baptiste to
dig for the carcasses of the cattle. It was weary work, for the snow
was higher than the level of the guide marks, and at times they
searched day after day and found no trace of hoof or horn. The little
field mice that had crept into camp were caught then and used to ease
the pangs of hunger. Also pieces of beef hide were cut into strips,
singed, scraped, boiled to the consistency of glue, and swallowed with
an effort; for no degree of hunger could make the saltless, sticky
substance palatable. Marrowless bones which had already been boiled and
scraped, were now burned and eaten, even the bark and twigs of pine
were chewed in the vain effort to soothe the gnawings which made one
cry for bread and meat.

During the bitterest weather we little ones were kept in bed, and my
place was always in the middle where Frances and Georgia, snuggling up
close, gave me of their warmth, and from them I learned many things
which I could neither have understood nor remembered had they not made
them plain.

PASS IN THE SIERRA NEVADAS OF CALIFORNIA

From an old drawing made from description furnished by Wm. G. Murphy. CAMP AT DONNER LAKE, NOVEMBER, 1846

Just one happy play is impressed upon my mind. It must have been after
the first storm, for the snow bank in front of the cabin door was not
high enough to keep out a little sunbeam that stole down the steps and
made a bright spot upon our floor. I saw it, and sat down under it,
held it on my lap, passed my hand up and down in its brightness, and
found that I could break its ray in two. In fact, we had quite a
frolic. I fancied that it moved when I did, for it warmed the top of my
head, kissed first one cheek and then the other, and seemed to run up
and down my arm. Finally I gathered up a piece of it in my apron and
ran to my mother. Great was my surprise when I carefully opened the
folds and found that I had nothing to show, and the sunbeam I had left
seemed shorter. After mother explained its nature, I watched it creep
back slowly up the steps and disappear.

Snowy Christmas brought us no "glad tidings," and New Year's Day no
happiness. Yet, each bright day that followed a storm was one of
thanksgiving, on which we all crept up the flight of snow steps and
huddled about on the surface in the blessed sunshine, but with our eyes
closed against its painful and blinding glare.

Once my mother took me to a hole where I saw smoke coming up, and she
told me that its steps led down to Uncle Jacob's tent, and that we
would go down there to see Aunt Betsy and my little cousins.

I stooped low and peered into the dark depths. Then I called to my
cousins to come to me, because I was afraid to go where they were. I
had not seen them since the day we encamped. At that time they were
chubby and playful, carrying water from the creek to their tent in
small tin pails. Now, they were so changed in looks that I scarcely
knew them, and they stared at me as at a stranger. So I was glad when
my mother came up and took me back to our own tent, which seemed less
dreary because I knew the things that were in it, and the faces about
me.

Father's hand became worse. The swelling and inflammation extending up
the arm to the shoulder produced suffering which he could not conceal.
Each day that we had a fire, I watched mother sitting by his side, with
a basin of warm water upon her lap, laving the wounded and inflamed
parts very tenderly, with a strip of frayed linen wrapped around a
little stick. I remember well the look of comfort that swept over his
worn features as she laid the soothed arm back into place.

By the middle of January the snow measured twelve and fourteen feet in
depth. Nothing could be seen of our abode except the coils of smoke
that found their way up through the opening. There was a dearth of
water. Prosser Creek was frozen over and covered with snow. Icicles
hung from the branches of every tree. The stock of pine cones that had
been gathered for lights was almost consumed. Wood was so scarce that
we could not have fire enough to cook our strips of rawhide, and
Georgia heard mother say that we children had not had a dry garment on
in more than a week, and that she did not know what to do about it.
Then like a smile from God, came another sunny day which not only
warmed and dried us thoroughly but furnished a supply of water from
dripping snowbanks.

The twenty-first was also bright, and John Baptiste went on snowshoes
with messages to the lake camp. He found its inmates in a more
pitiable condition than we were. Only one death had occurred there
since our last communication, but he saw several of the starving who
could not survive many days.

The number to consume the slender stock of food had been lessened,
however, on the sixteenth of December, some six weeks previously, by
the departure of William Eddy, Patrick Dolan,
Lemuel Murphy, William Foster,
Mrs. Sarah Foster, Jay Fosdick,
Mrs. Sarah Fosdick, Mrs.
William McCutchen, Mrs. Harriet Pike, Miss Mary Graves, Franklin
Graves, Sr., C.T. Stanton, Antonio, Lewis, and Salvador.

This party, which called itself "The Forlorn Hope," had a most
memorable experience, as will be shown later. In some instances husband
had parted from wife, and father from children. Three young mothers had
left their babes in the arms of grandmothers. It was a dire resort, a
last desperate attempt, in face of death, to save those dependent upon
them.

Staff in hand, they had set forth on snowshoes, each carrying a pack
containing little save a quilt and light rations for six days'
journeying. One had a rifle, ammunition, flint, and hatchet for camp
use. William Murphy and Charles Burger, who had originally been of the
number, gave out before the close of the first day, and crept back to
camp. The others continued under the leadership of the intrepid Eddy
and brave Stanton.

John Baptiste remained there a short time and returned to us, saying,
"Those at the other camp believe the promised relief is close at hand!"

This rekindled hope in us, even as it had revived courage and prolonged
lives in the lake cabins, and we prayed, as they were praying, that the
relief might come before its coming should be too late.

Oh, how we watched, hour after hour, and how often each day John
Baptiste climbed to the topmost bough of a tall pine tree and, with
straining eyes, scanned the desolate expanse for one moving speck in
the distance, for one ruffled track on the snow which should ease our
awful suspense.

Days passed. No food in camp except an unsavory beef hide—pinching
hunger called for more. Again John Baptiste and Noah James went forth
in anxious search for marks of our buried cattle. They made
excavations, then forced their hand-poles deep, deeper into the snow,
but in vain their efforts—the nail and hook at the points brought up
no sign of blood, hair, or hide. In dread unspeakable they returned,
and said:

"We shall go mad; we shall die! It is useless to hunt for the cattle;
but the dead, if they could be reached, their bodies might keep us
alive."

"No," replied father and mother, speaking for themselves. "No, part of
a hide still remains. When it is gone we will perish, if that be the
alternative."

The fact was, our dead could not have been disturbed even had the
attempt been made, for the many snowfalls of winter were banked about
them firm as granite walls, and in that camp was neither implement nor
arm strong enough to reach their resting-places.

It was a long, weary waiting, on starvation rations until the
nineteenth of February. I did not see any one coming that morning; but
I remember that, suddenly, there was an unusual stir and excitement in
the camp. Three strangers were there, and one was talking with father.
The others took packs from their backs and measured out small
quantities of flour and jerked beef and two small biscuits for each of
us. Then they went up to fell the sheltering pine tree over our tent
for fuel; while Noah James, Mrs. Wolfinger, my two half-sisters, and
mother kept moving about hunting for things.

Finally Elitha and Leanna came and kissed me, then father, "good-bye,"
and went up the steps, and out of sight. Mother stood on the snow where
she could see all go forth. They moved in single file,—the leaders on
snowshoes, the weak stepping in the tracks made by the strong. Leanna,
the last in line, was scarcely able to keep up. It was not until after
mother came back with Frances and Georgia that I was made to understand
that this was the long-hoped-for relief party.

It had come and gone, and had taken Noah James, Mrs. Wolfinger, and my
two half-sisters from us; then had stopped at Aunt Betsy's for William
Hook, her eldest son, and my Cousin George, and all were now on the
way to the lake cabins to join others who were able to walk over the
snow without assistance.

The rescuers, seven in number, who had followed instructions given them
at the settlement, professed to have no knowledge of the Forlorn Hope,
except that this first relief expedition had been outfitted by
Captain Sutter and Alcalde Sinclair in response to Mr. Eddy's appeal, and that
other rescue parties were being organized in California, and would soon
come prepared to carry out the remaining children and helpless grown
folk. By this we knew that Mr. Eddy, at least, had succeeded in
reaching the settlement.

CHAPTER IX

SUFFERINGS OF THE "FORLORN HOPE"—RESORT TO HUMAN FLESH—"CAMP OF
DEATH"—BOOTS CRISPED AND EATEN—DEER KILLED—INDIAN Rancheria—THE
"WHITE MAN'S HOME" AT LAST.

Although we were so meagrely informed, it is well that my readers
should, at this point, become familiar with the experiences of the
expedition known as the Forlorn Hope,[6] and also the various measures
taken for our relief when our precarious condition was made known to
the good people of California. It will be remembered that the Forlorn
Hope was the party of fifteen which, as John Baptiste reported to us,
made the last unaided attempt to cross the mountains.

Words cannot picture, nor mind conceive, more torturing hardships and
privations than were endured by that little band on its way to the
settlement. It left the camp on the sixteenth of December, with scant
rations for six days, hoping in that time to force its way to Bear
Valley and there find game. But the storms which had been so pitiless
at the mountain camps followed the unprotected refugees with seemingly
fiendish fury. After the first day from camp, its members could no
longer keep together on their marches. The stronger broke the trail,
and the rest followed to night-camp as best they could.

On the third day, Stanton's sight failed, and he begged piteously to be
led; but, soon realizing the heart-rending plight of his companions, he
uncomplainingly submitted to his fate. Three successive nights, he
staggered into camp long after the others had finished their stinted
meal. Always he was shivering from cold, sometimes wet with sleet and
rain.

It is recorded that at no time had the party allowed more than an ounce
of food per meal to the individual, yet the rations gave out on the
night of the twenty-second, while they were still in a wilderness of
snow-peaks. Mr. Eddy only was better provided. In looking over his pack
that morning for the purpose of throwing away any useless article, he
unexpectedly found a small bag containing about a half-pound of dried
bear-meat.[7] Fastened to the meat was a pencilled note from his wife,
begging him to save the hidden treasure until his hour of direst need,
since it might then be the means of saving his life. The note was
signed, "Your own dear Elinor." With tenderest emotion, he slipped the
food back, resolving to do the dear one's bidding, trusting that she
and their children might live until he should return for them.

BEAR VALLEY, FROM EMIGRANT GAP

THE TRACKLESS MOUNTAINS

The following morning, while the others were preparing to leave camp,
Stanton sat beside the smouldering fire smoking his pipe. When ready to
go forth, they asked him if he was coming, and he replied, "Yes, I am
coming soon." Those were his parting words to his friends, and his
greeting to the Angel of Death.[8] He never left that fireside, and his
companions were too feeble to return for him when they found he did not
come into camp.

Twenty-four hours later, the members of that hapless little band threw
themselves upon the desolate waste of snow to ponder the problems of
life and death; to search each the other's face for answer to the
question their lips durst not frame. Fathers who had left their
families, and mothers who had left their babes, wanted to go back and
die with them, if die they must; but Mr. Eddy and the Indians—those
who had crossed the range with Stanton—declared that they would push
on to the settlement. Then Mary Graves, in whose young heart were still
whisperings of hope, courageously said:

"I, too, will go on, for to go back and hear the cries of hunger from
my little brothers and sisters is more than I can stand. I shall go as
far as I can, let the consequences be what they may."

W.F. Graves, her father, would not let his daughter proceed alone, and
finally all decided to make a final, supreme effort. Yet—think of
it—they were without one morsel of food! Even the wind seemed to
hold its breath as the suggestion was made that, "were one to die, the
rest might live." Then the suggestion was made that lots be cast, and
whoever drew the longest slip should be the sacrifice. Mr. Eddy
endorsed the plan. Despite opposition from Mr. Foster and others, the
slips of paper were prepared, and great-hearted Patrick Dolan drew the
fatal slip. Patrick Dolan, who had come away from camp that his
famishing friends might prolong their lives by means of the small stock
of food which he had to leave! Harm a hair of that good man's head? Not
a soul of that starving band would do it.

Mr. Eddy then proposed that they resume their journey as best they
could until death should claim a victim. All acquiesced. Slowly rising
to their feet, they managed to stagger and to crawl forward about three
miles to a tree which furnished fuel for their Christmas fire. It was
kindled with great difficulty, for in cutting the boughs, the hatchet
blade flew off the handle and for a time was lost in deep snow.

Meanwhile, every puff of wind was laden with killing frost, and in
sight of that glowing fire, Antonio froze to death. Mr. Graves, who was
also breathing heavily, when told by Mr. Eddy that he was dying,
replied that he did not care. He, however, called his daughters, Mrs.
Fosdick and Mary Graves, to him, and by his parting injunctions, showed
that he was still able to realize keenly the dangers that beset them.
Remembering how their faces had paled at the suggestion of using human
flesh for food, he admonished them to put aside the natural repugnance
which stood between them and the possibility of life. He commanded them
to banish sentiment and instinctive loathing, and think only of their
starving mother, brothers, and sisters whom they had left in camp, and
avail themselves of every means in their power to rescue them. He
begged that his body be used to sustain the famishing, and bidding each
farewell, his spirit left its bruised and worn tenement before half the
troubles of the night were passed.

About ten o'clock, pelting hail, followed by snow on the wings of a
tornado, swept every spark of fire from those shivering mortals, whose
voices now mingled with the shrieking wind, calling to heaven for
relief. Mr. Eddy, knowing that all would freeze to death in the
darkness if allowed to remain exposed, succeeded after many efforts in
getting them close together between their blankets where the snow
covered them.

With the early morning, Patrick Dolan became delirious and left camp.
He was brought back with difficulty and forcibly kept under cover until
late in the day, when he sank into a stupor, whence he passed quietly
into that sleep which knows no waking.

The crucial hour had come. Food lay before the starving, yet every eye
turned from it and every hand dropped irresolute.

Another night of agony passed, during which Lemuel Murphy became
delirious and called long and loud for food; but the cold was so
intense that it kept all under their blankets until four o'clock in the
afternoon, when Mr. Eddy succeeded in getting a fire in the trunk of a
large pine tree. Whereupon, his companions, instead of seeking food,
crept forth and broke off low branches, put them down before the fire
and laid their attenuated forms upon them. The flames leaped up the
trunk, and burned off dead boughs so that they dropped on the snow
about them, but the unfortunates were too weak and too indifferent to
fear the burning brands.

Mr. Eddy now fed his waning strength on shreds of his concealed bear
meat, hoping that he might survive to save the giver. The rest in camp
could scarcely walk, by the twenty-eighth, and their sensations of
hunger were deminishing. This condition forebode delirium and death,
unless stayed by the only means at hand. It was in very truth a pitiful
alternative offered to the sufferers.

With sickening anguish the first morsels were prepared and given to
Lemuel Murphy, but for him they were too late. Not one touched flesh of
kindred body. Nor was there need of restraining hand, or warning voice
to gauge the small quantity which safety prescribed to break the fast
of the starving. Death would have been preferable to that awful meal,
had relentless fate not said: "Take, eat that ye may live. Eat, lest ye
go mad and leave your work undone!"

All but the Indians obeyed the mandate, and were strengthened and
reconciled to prepare the remaining flesh to sustain them a few days
longer on their journey.

Hitherto, the wanderers had been guided partly by the fitful sun,
partly by Lewis and Salvador, the Indians who had come with Stanton
from Sutter's Fort. In the morning, however, when they were ready to
leave that spot, which was thereafter known as the "Camp of Death,"
Salvador, who could speak a little English, insisted that he and Lewis
were lost, and, therefore, unable to guide them farther.

Nevertheless, the party at once set out and travelled instinctively
until evening. The following morning they wrapped pieces of blanket
around their cracked and swollen feet and again struggled onward until
late in the afternoon, when they encamped upon a high ridge. There they
saw beyond, in the distance, a wide plain which they believed to be the
Sacramento Valley.

This imaginary glimpse of distant lowland gave them a peaceful sleep.
The entire day of December 31 was spent in crossing a cañon, and every
footstep left its trace of blood in the snow.

When they next encamped, Mr. Eddy saw that poor
Jay Fosdick was
failing, and he begged him to summon up all his courage and energy in
order to reach the promised land, now so near. They were again without
food; and William Foster, whose mind had become unbalanced by the long
fast, was ready to kill Mrs. McCutchen or Miss Graves. Mr. Eddy
confronted and intimidated the crazed sufferer, who next threatened
the Indian guides, and would have carried out his threat then, had Mr.
Eddy not secretly warned them against danger and urged them to flee.
But nothing could save the Indians from Foster's insane passion later,
when he found them on the trail in an unconscious and dying condition.

January 1, 1847, was, to the little band of eight, a day of less
distressing trials; its members resumed travel early, braced by
unswerving will-power. They stopped at midday and revived strength by
eating the toasted strings of their snowshoes. Mr. Eddy also ate his
worn out moccasins, and all felt a renewal of hope upon seeing before
them an easier grade which led to night-camp where the snow was only
six feet in depth. Soothed by a milder temperature, they resumed their
march earlier next morning and descended to where the snow was but
three feet deep. There they built their camp-fire and slightly crisped
the leather of a pair of old boots and a pair of shoes which
constituted their evening meal, and was the last of their effects
available as food.

An extraordinary effort on the third day of the new year brought them
to bare ground between patches of snow. They were still astray among
the western foothills of the Sierras, and sat by a fire under an oak
tree all night, enduring hunger that was almost maddening.

Jay Fosdick was sinking rapidly, and Mr. Eddy resolved to take the gun
and steal away from camp at dawn. But his conscience smote him, and he
finally gave the others a hint of his intention of going in search of
game, and of not returning unless successful. Not a moving creature nor
a creeping thing had crossed the trail on their journey thither; but
the open country before them, and minor marks well known to hunters,
had caught Mr. Eddy's eye and strengthened his determination. Mrs.
Pike, in dread and fear of the result, threw her arms about Mr. Eddy's
neck and implored him not to leave them, and the others mingled their
entreaties and protestations with hers. In silence he took his gun to
go alone. Then Mary Graves declared that she would keep up with him,
and without heeding further opposition the two set out. A short
distance from camp they stopped at a place where a deer had recently
lain.

With a thrill of emotion too intense for words, with a prayer in his
heart too fervent for utterance, Mr. Eddy turned his tearful eyes
toward Mary and saw her weeping like a child. A moment later, that man
and that woman who had once said that they knew not how to pray, were
kneeling beside that newly found track pleading in broken accents to
the Giver of all life, for a manifestation of His power to save their
starving band. Long restrained tears were still streaming down the
cheeks of both, and soothing their anxious hearts as they arose to go
in pursuit of the deer. J.Q. Thornton says:

They had not proceeded far before they saw a large buck about eighty
yards distant. Mr. Eddy raised his rifle and for some time tried to
bring it to bear upon the deer, but such was his extreme weakness
that he could not. He breathed a little, changed his manner of
holding the gun, and made another effort. Again his weakness
prevented him from being able to hold upon it. He heard a low,
suppressed sobbing behind him, and, turning around, saw Mary Graves
weeping and in great agitation, her head bowed, and her hands upon
her face. Alarmed lest she should cause the deer to run, Mr. Eddy
begged her to be quiet, which she was, after exclaiming, "Oh, I am
afraid you will not kill it."

He brought the gun to his face the third time, and elevated the
muzzle above the deer, let it descend until he saw the animal
through the sight, when the rifle cracked. Mary immediately wept
aloud, exclaiming, "Oh, merciful God, you have missed it!" Mr. Eddy
assured her that he had not; that the rifle was upon it the moment
of firing; and that, in addition to this, the animal had dropped its
tail between its legs, which this animal always does when wounded.

His belief was speedily confirmed. The deer ran a short distance,
then fell, and the two eager watchers hastened to it as fast as
their weakened condition would allow. Mr. Eddy cut the throat of the
expiring beast with his pocket-knife, and he and his companion knelt
down and drank the warm blood that flowed from the wound.

The excitement of getting that blessed food, and the strength it
imparted, produced a helpful reaction, and enabled them to sit down in
peace to rest a while, before attempting to roll their treasure to the
tree near-by, where they built a fire and prepared the entrails.

Mr. Eddy fired several shots after dark, so that the others might know
that he had not abandoned them. Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Foster, Mrs.
McCutchen, and Mrs. Pike had moved forward and made their camp half-way
between Mr. Eddy's new one and that of the previous night. Mr. Fosdick,
however, being too weak to rise, remained at the first camp. His
devoted wife pillowed his head upon her lap, and prayed that death
would call them away together. Mr. Thornton
continues:

The sufferer had heard the crack of Mr. Eddy's rifle at the time he
killed the deer, and said, feebly, "There! Eddy has killed a deer!
Now, if I can only get to him I shall live!"

But in the stillness of that cold, dark night, Jay Fosdick's spirit
fled alone. His wife wrapped their only blanket about his body, and lay
down on the ground beside him, hoping to freeze to death. The morning
dawned bright, the sun came out, and the lone widow rose, kissed the
face of her dead, and, with a small bundle in her hand, started to join
Mr. Eddy. She passed a hunger-crazed man on the way from the middle
camp, going to hers, and her heart grew sick, for she knew that her
loved one's body would not be spared for burial rites.

She found Mr. Eddy drying his deer meat before the fire, and later saw
him divide it so that each of his companions in the camps should have
an equal share.

The seven survivors, each with his portion of venison, resumed travel
on the sixth and continued in the foothills a number of days, crawling
up the ascents, sliding down the steeps; often harassed by fears of
becoming lost near the goal, yet unaware that they were astray.

The venison had been consumed. Hope had almost died in the heart of the
bravest, when at the close of day on the tenth of January, twenty-five
days from the date of leaving Donner Lake, they saw an Indian village
at the edge of a thicket they were approaching. As the sufferers
staggered forward, the Indians were overwhelmed at sight of their
misery. The warriors gazed in stolid silence. The squaws wrung their
hands and wept aloud. The larger children hid themselves, and the
little ones clung to their mothers in fear. The first sense of horror
having passed, those dusky mothers fed the unfortunates. Some brought
them unground acorns to eat, while others mixed the meal into cakes and
offered them as fast as they could cook them on the heated stones. All
except Mr. Eddy were strengthened by the food. It sickened him, and he
resorted to green grass boiled in water.

The following morning the chief sent his runners to other rancherias,
en route to the settlement, telling his people of the distress of the
pale-faces who were coming toward them, and who would need food. When
the Forlorn Hope was ready to move on, the chief led the way, and an
Indian walked on either side of each sufferer supporting and helping
the unsteady feet. At each rancheria the party was put in charge of a
new leader and fresh supporters.

On the seventeenth, the chief with much difficulty procured, for Mr.
Eddy, a gill of pine nuts which the latter found so nutritious that the
following morning, on resuming travel, he was able to walk without
support. They had proceeded less than a mile when his companions sank
to the ground completely unnerved. They had suddenly given up and were
willing to die. The Indians appeared greatly perplexed, and Mr. Eddy
shook with sickening fear. Was his great effort to come to naught?
Should his wife and babes die while he stood guard over those who would
no longer help themselves? No, he would push ahead and see what he yet
could do!

The old chief sent an Indian with him as a guide and support. Relieved
of the sight and personal responsibility of his enfeebled companions,
Mr. Eddy felt a renewal of strength and determination. He pressed
onward, scarcely heeding his dusky guide. At the end of five miles they
met another Indian, and Mr. Eddy, now conscious that his feet were
giving out, promised the stranger tobacco, if he would go with them and
help to lead him to the "white man's house."

And so that long, desperate struggle for life, and for the sake of
loved ones, ended an hour before sunset, when Mr. Eddy, leaning heavily
upon the Indians, halted before the door of
Colonel M.D. Richey's home,
thirty-five miles from Sutter's Fort.

The first to meet him was the daughter of the house, whom he asked for
bread. Thornton says:

She looked at him, burst out crying, and took hold of him to assist
him into the room. He was immediately placed in bed, in which he lay
unable to turn his body during four days. In a very short time he
had food brought to him by Mrs. Richey, who sobbed as she fed the
miserable and frightful being before her. Shortly, Harriet, the
daughter, had carried the news from house to house in the
neighborhood, and horses were running at full speed from place to
place until all preparations were made for taking relief to those
whom Mr. Eddy had left in the morning.

William Johnson, John Howell, John Rhodes, Mr. Keiser, Mr. Sagur,
Racine Tucker, and Joseph Varro assembled at Mr. Richey's
immediately. The females collected the bread they had, with tea,
sugar, and coffee, amounting to as much as four men could carry.
Howell, Rhodes, Sagur, and Tucker started at once, on foot, with the
Indians as guides, and arrived at camp, between fifteen and eighteen
miles distant, at midnight.

Mr. Eddy had warned the outgoing party against giving the sufferers as
much food as they might want, but, on seeing them, the tender-hearted
men could not deny their tearful begging for "more." One of the relief
was kept busy until dawn preparing food which the rest gave to the
enfeebled emigrants. This overdose of kindness made its victims
temporarily very ill, but caused no lasting harm.

Early on the morning of January 18, Messrs. Richey, Johnson, Varro, and
Keiser, equipped with horses and other necessaries, hurried away to
bring in the refugees, together with their comrades who had gone on
before. By ten o'clock that night the whole of the Forlorn Hope were
safe in the homes of their benefactors. Mr. Richey declared that he and
his party had retraced Mr. Eddy's track six miles, by the blood from
his feet; and that they could not have believed that he had travelled
that eighteen miles, if they themselves had not passed over the ground
in going to his discouraged companions.

The experiences of the Donner Party, to which he refers in
a footnote, suggested to Bret Harte the opening chapters of "Gabriel
Conroy"; but he has followed the sensational accounts circulated by the
newspapers, and the survivors find his work a mere travesty of the
facts. The narrative, however, does not purport to set forth the truth,
but is confessedly imaginative.

The kindness and sympathy shown Mr. Eddy by the good people in the
neighborhood of the Richey and Johnson ranches encouraged his efforts
in behalf of his fellow-sufferers in the mountains. While the early
sunlight of January 19 was flooding his room with cheer and warmth, he
dictated a letter to
Mr. John Sinclair, Alcalde of the Upper District
of California, living near Sutter's Fort, in which he stated as briefly
as possible the conditions and perils surrounding the snow-bound
travellers, and begged him to use every means in his power toward their
immediate rescue.

Bear River was running high, and the plain between it and Sutter's Fort
seemed a vast quagmire, but John Rhodes volunteered to deliver the
letter. He was ferried over the river on a raft formed of two logs
lashed together with strips of rawhide. Then he rolled his trousers
above the knee and with his shoes in his hand, started on his mission.
He saw no white faces until he reached
Sinclair's, where the letter
created a painful interest and won ready promises of help.

It was dark when he reached Sutter's Fort, nevertheless from house to
house he spread the startling report: "Men, women, and little children
are snow-bound in the Sierras, and starving to death!"

Captain Kerns in charge at the Fort, pledged his aid, and influence to
the cause of relief.
Captain Sutter, who had already twice sent
supplies, first by Stanton and again by McCutchen and Reed, in their
unsuccessful attempt to cross the mountains, at once agreed to
coöperate with Alcalde Sinclair.

While Captain Kerns at Sutter's Fort was sending messengers to
different points, and Mrs. Sinclair was collecting clothing to replace
the tattered garments of the members of the Forlorn Hope, her husband
despatched an open letter to the people of San Francisco, describing
the arrival of the survivors of the Forlorn Hope, and the heart-rending
condition of those remaining in the mountains. He urged immediate
action, and offered his services for individual work, or to coöperate
with Government relief, or any parties that might be preparing to go
out with Messrs. Reed and McCutchen, who were known to be endeavoring
to raise a second expedition.

SUTTER'S FORT

SAM BRANNAN'S STORE AT SUTTER'S FORT

The letter was taken to the City Hotel in San Francisco, and read aloud
in the dining-room. Its contents aroused all the tender emotions
known to human nature. Some of the listeners had parted from members of
the Donner Party at the Little Sandy, when its prospects appeared so
bright, and the misfortunes which had since befallen the party seemed
incredible. Women left the room sobbing, and men called those passing,
in from the street, to join the knots of earnest talkers. All were
ready and willing to do; but, alas, the obstacles which had prevented
Mr. Reed getting men for the mountain work still remained to be
overcome.

Existing war between Mexico and the United States was keeping
California in a disturbed condition. Most of the able-bodied male
emigrants had enlisted under Captain Frémont as soon as they reached
the country, and were still on duty in the southern part of the
province; and the non-enlisted were deemed necessary for the protection
of the colonies of American women and children encamped on the soil of
the enemy. Moreover, all felt that each man who should attempt to cross
the snow belt would do so at the peril of his life.

Mr. Reed, who in the late Autumn had sent petitions to the Military
Governor and to Lieutenant Washington A. Bartlett of the United States
Navy, Alcalde of the town and district of San Francisco, but as yet had
obtained nothing, now appeared before each in person, and was promised
assistance. Captain Mervine
of the United States Navy, and
Mr. Richardson,
United States Collector, each subscribed fifty dollars to
the cause on his own account.

As a result of these appeals, Alcalde Bartlett called a public meeting;
and so intense was the feeling that Mr. Dunleary, "the first speaker,
had scarcely taken his seat on the platform when the people rushed to
the chairman's table from all parts of the house with their hands full
of silver dollars," and could hardly be induced to stay their
generosity until the meeting was organized.

A treasurer and two committees were appointed; the one to solicit
subscriptions, and the other to purchase supplies. The Alcalde was
requested to act with both committees. Seven hundred dollars was
subscribed before the meeting adjourned. Seven hundred dollars, in an
isolated Spanish province, among newly arrived immigrants, was a
princely sum to gather.

Messrs. Ward and Smith, in addition to a generous subscription, offered
their launch Dice mi Nana, to transport the expedition to Feather
River, and Mr. John Fuller volunteered to pilot the launch.

It was decided to fit out an expedition, under charge of Past
Midshipman Woodworth, who had tendered his services for the purpose, he
to act under instructions of the Military Governor and coöperate with
the committee aiding Reed.

Soon thereafter "Old Trapper Greenwood" appeared in San Francisco,
asking for assistance in fitting out a following to go to the mountains
with himself and McCutchen,
Mr. George Yount and others in and around
Sonoma and Napa having recommended him as leader. Donations of horses,
mules, beef, and flour had already been sent to his camp in Napa
Valley. Furthermore,
Lieut. William L. Maury, U.S.N., Commander at the
port;
Don Mariano G. Vallejo, Ex-Commandante-General of California; Mr.
George Yount, and others subscribed the sum of five hundred dollars in
specie toward outfitting Greenwood and the men he should select to
cross the mountains.

Greenwood urged that he should have ten or twelve men on whom he could
rely after reaching deep snow. These, he said, he could secure if he
had the ready money to make advances and to procure the necessary warm
clothing and blankets. He had crossed the Sierras before, when the snow
lay deep on the summit, and now proposed to drive over horses and kill
them at the camps as provisions for the sufferers. If this scheme
should fail, he and his sons with others would get food to the camp on
snowshoes. Thornton says:

The Governor-General of California, after due form, and trusting to
the generosity and humanity of the Government which he represented,
appropriated four hundred dollars on Government account toward
outfitting this relief party. Furthermore, in compliance with an
application from Alcalde Bartlett (for the committee),
Captain Mervine,
of the U.S. frigate Savannah, furnished from the ship's
stores ten days' full rations for ten men. The crews of the
Savannah and the sloop Warren, and the marines in garrison at
San Francisco, increased the relief fund to thirteen hundred
dollars. Messrs. Mellus and Howard tendered their launch to carry
the party up the bay to Sonoma, and Captain Sutter proffered his
launch Sacramento for river use.

It was now settled that the "Reed-Greenwood party" should go to
Johnson's ranch by way of Sonoma and Napa, and
Woodworth with his
men and supplies, including clothing for the destitute, should go
by boat to Sutter's Landing; there procure pack animals, buy beef
cattle, and hurry on to the snow-belt; establish a relay camp,
slaughter the cattle, and render all possible aid toward the
immediate rescue of the snow-bound.

Meanwhile, before Alcalde Sinclair's letter had time to reach San
Francisco, he and Captain Sutter began outfitting the men destined to
become the "First Relief."
Aguilla Glover and
R.S. Moutrey volunteered
their services, declaring their willingness to undertake the hazardous
journey for the sake of the lives they might save.

To hasten recruits for service, Captain Sutter and Alcalde Sinclair
promised that in case the Government should fail to grant the sum, they
themselves would become responsible for the payment of three dollars
per day to each man who would get food through to the snow-bound camps.
Accordingly, Aguilla Glover and R.S. Moutrey, driving pack animals well
laden with warm clothing, blankets, and food supplies, left the Fort at
sunrise on the morning of February the first, and on the third reached
Johnson's ranch, where they joined Messrs. Tucker, Johnson, Richey and
others, who, being anxious to assist in the good work, had killed, and
were fire-drying, beef to take up the mountains. Here two days were
spent making pack-saddles, driving in horses, and getting supplies in
shape. Indians were kept at the handmill grinding wheat. Part of the
flour was sacked, and part converted into bread by the women in the
vicinity.

On the morning of the fifth of February, Alcalde Sinclair rode to
Johnson's ranch, and all things being ready, he appointed Racine Tucker
Captain of the company, and in touching words commended the heroic work
of its members, and bade them godspeed on their errand of mercy. When
ready to mount, he shook hands with each man, and recorded the names in
a note-book as follows:

This party is generally known as the
"First Relief." Their route to the
snow-belt lay through sections of country which had become so soft and
oozy that the horses often sank in mire, flank deep; and the streams
were so swollen that progress was alarmingly slow. On the second day
they were driven into camp early by heavy rains which drenched
clothing, blankets, and even the provisions carefully stored under the
saddles and leather saddle-covers. This caused a delay of thirty-six
hours, for everything had to be sun or fire dried before the party
could resume travel.

Upon reaching Mule Springs, the party found the snow from three to four
feet deep, and, contrary to expectations, saw that it would be
impossible to proceed farther with the horses. Mr. Eddy was now ill of
fever, and unfit to continue the climb; whereupon his companions
promised to bring out his loved ones if he would return with Joe Varro,
whom Mr. Johnson had sent along to bring the pack animals home after
they should cease to be of use.

At Mule Springs, the party built a brush store-house for the extra
supplies and appointed George Tucker and William Coon camp-keepers.
Then they prepared packs containing jerked beef, flour, and bread, each
weighing between forty and seventy-five pounds, according to the
temperament and strength of the respective carriers. The following
morning ten men started on their toilsome march to Bear Valley, where
they arrived on the thirteenth, and at once began searching for the
abandoned wagon and provisions which Reed and McCutchen had cached the
previous Autumn, after their fruitless attempt to scale the mountains.
The wagon was found under snow ten feet in depth; but its supplies had
been destroyed by wild beasts. Warned by this catastrophe, the First
Relief decided to preserve its supplies for the return trip by hanging
them in parcels from ropes tied to the boughs of trees.

The ten kept together courageously until the fifteenth; then Mr. M.D.
Richey, James Curtis, and Adolph Brenheim gave up and turned back. Mr.
Tucker, fearing that others might become disheartened and do likewise,
guaranteed each man who would persevere to the end, five dollars per
diem, dating from the time the party entered the snow. The remaining
seven pushed ahead, and on the eighteenth, encamped on the summit
overlooking the lake, where the snow was said to be forty feet in
depth.

The following morning Aguilla Glover and Daniel Rhodes were so
oppressed by the altitude that their companions had to relieve them of
their packs and help them on to the cabins, which, as chronicled in a
previous chapter, the party reached on the nineteenth of February,
1847.

CHAPTER XI

WATCHING FOR THE SECOND RELIEF PARTY—"OLD NAVAJO"—LAST FOOD IN CAMP.

After the departure of the First Relief we who were left in the
mountains began to watch and pray for the coming of the
Second Relief,
as we had before watched and prayed for the coming of the First.

Sixteen-year-old John Baptiste was disappointed and in ill humor when
Messrs. Tucker and Rhodes insisted that he, being the only able-bodied
man in the Donner camp, should stay and cut wood for the enfeebled,
until the arrival of other rescuers. The little half-breed was a sturdy
fellow, but he was starving too, and thought that he should be allowed
to save himself.

After he had had a talk with father, however, and the first company of
refugees had gone, he became reconciled to his lot, and served us
faithfully. He would take us little ones up to exercise upon the snow,
saying that we should learn to keep our feet on the slick, frozen
surface, as well as to wade through slush and loose drifts.

Frequently, when at work and lonesome, he would call Georgia and me up
to keep him company, and when the weather was frosty, he would bring
"Old Navajo," his long Indian blanket, and roll her in it from one end,
and me from the other, until we would come together in the middle, like
the folds of a paper of pins, with a face peeping above each fold. Then
he would set us upon the stump of the pine tree while he chopped the
trunk and boughs for fuel. He told us that he had promised father to
stay until we children should be taken from camp, also that his home
was to be with our family forever. One of his amusements was to rake
the coals together nights, then cover them with ashes, and put the
large camp kettle over the pile for a drum, so that we could spread our
hands around it, "to get just a little warm before going to bed."

For the time, he lived at Aunt Betsy's tent, because Solomon Hook was
snow-blind and demented, and at times restless and difficult to
control. The poor boy, some weeks earlier, had set out alone to reach
the settlement, and after an absence of forty-eight hours was found
close to camp, blind, and with his mind unbalanced. He, like other
wanderers on that desolate waste, had become bewildered, and,
unconsciously, circled back near to the starting-point.

Aunt Betsy came often to our tent, and mother frequently went to hers,
and they knelt together and asked for strength to bear their burdens.
Once, when mother came back, she reported to father that she had
discovered bear tracks quite close to camp, and was solicitous that the
beast be secured, as its flesh might sustain us until rescued.

As father grew weaker, we children spent more time upon the snow above
camp. Often, after his wound was dressed and he fell into a quiet
slumber, our ever-busy, thoughtful mother would come to us and sit on
the tree trunk. Sometimes she brought paper and wrote; sometimes she
sketched the mountains and the tall tree-tops, which now looked like
small trees growing up through the snow. And often, while knitting or
sewing, she held us spell-bound with wondrous tales of "Joseph in
Egypt," of "Daniel in the den of lions," of "Elijah healing the widow's
son," of dear little Samuel, who said, "Speak Lord, for Thy servant
heareth," and of the tender, loving Master, who took young children in
his arms and blessed them.

With me sitting on her lap, and Frances and Georgia at either side, she
referred to father's illness and lonely condition, and said that when
the next "Relief" came, we little ones might be taken to the
settlement, without either parent, but, God willing, both would follow
later. Who could be braver or tenderer than she, as she prepared us to
go forth with strangers and live without her? While she, without
medicine, without lights, would remain and care for our suffering
father, in hunger and in cold, and without her little girls to kiss
good-morning and good-night. She taught us how to gain friends among
those whom we should meet, and what to answer when asked whose children
we were.

Often her eyes gazed wistfully to westward, where sky and mountains
seemed to meet, and she told us that beyond those snowy peaks lay
California, our land of food and safety, our promised land of
happiness, where God would care for us. Oh, it was painfully quiet some
days in those great mountains, and lonesome upon the snow. The pines
had a whispering homesick murmur, and we children had lost all
inclination to play.

The last food which I remember seeing in our camp before the arrival of
the Second Relief was a thin mould of tallow, which mother had tried
out of the trimmings of the jerked beef brought us by the First Relief.
She had let it harden in a pan, and after all other rations had given
out, she cut daily from it three small white squares for each of us,
and we nibbled off the four corners very slowly, and then around and
around the edges of the precious pieces until they became too small for
us to hold between our fingers.

CHAPTER XII

ARRIVAL OF SECOND RELIEF, OR REED-GREENWOOD PARTY—FEW SURVIVORS STRONG
ENOUGH TO TRAVEL—WIFE'S CHOICE—PARTINGS AT DONNER CAMP—MY TWO
SISTERS AND I DESERTED—DEPARTURE OF SECOND RELIEF PARTY.

They reported having met the First Relief with eighteen refugees at the
head of Bear Valley, three having died en route from the cabins.
Among the survivors Mr. Reed found his wife, his daughter Virginia, and
his son James F. Reed, Jr. He learned there from his anxious wife that
their two younger children, Martha J. and Thomas K. Reed, had also left
the cabin with her, but had soon given out and been carried back and
left at the mountain camp by Messrs. Glover and Moutrey, who then
retraced their steps and rejoined the party.

Consequently this Reed-Greenwood party, realizing that this was no time
for tarrying, had hurried on to the lake cabins, where Mr. Reed had the
happiness of finding his children still alive. There he and five
companions encamped upon the snow and fed and soothed the unfortunates.
Two members continued on to Aunt Betsy's abode, and Messrs. Cady and
Clark came to ours.

This Relief had followed the example of its predecessor in leaving
supplies at marked caches along the trail for the return trip.
Therefore, it reached camp with a frugal amount for distribution. The
first rations were doled out with careful hand, lest harm should come
to the famishing through overeating, still, the rescuers administered
sufficient to satisfy the fiercest cravings and to give strength for
the prospective journey.

While crossing Alder Creek Valley to our tent that first afternoon,
Messrs. Cady and Clark had seen fresh tracks of a bear and cubs, and in
the evening the latter took one of our guns and went in pursuit of the
game which would have been a godsend to us. It was dark when he
returned and told my mother that he had wounded the old bear near the
camp, but that she had escaped with her young through the pines into a
clump of tamarack, and that he would be able to follow her in the
morning by the blood-stains on the snow.

Meanwhile, the two men who had come to Aunt Betsy's with food thought
it best not to tell her that her son William had died en route to the
settlement with the First Relief. They selected from among her
children in camp, Solomon, Mary, and Isaac, as able to follow a leader
to the lake cabins, and thence to go with the outgoing Second Relief,
across the mountains. Hopefully, that mother kissed her three children
good-bye, and then wistfully watched them depart with their rescuers on
snowshoes. She herself was strong enough to make the journey, but
remained because there was no one to help to carry out her two youngest
children.

Thirty-one of the company were still in the camps when this party
arrived, nearly all of them children, unable to travel without
assistance, and the adults were too feeble to give much aid to the
little ones upon the snow. Consequently, when my father learned that
the Second Relief comprised only ten men, he felt that he himself would
never reach the settlement. He was willing to be left alone, and
entreated mother to leave him and try to save herself and us children.
He reminded her that his life was almost spent, that she could do
little for him were she to remain, and that in caring for us children
she would be carrying on his work.

She who had to choose between the sacred duties of wife and mother,
thought not of self. She looked first at her helpless little children,
then into the face of her suffering and helpless husband, and tenderly,
unhesitatingly, announced her determination to remain and care for him
until both should be rescued, or death should part them.

From an old drawing made from description furnished by Wm. G. Murphy. ARRIVAL OF RELIEF PARTY, FEBRUARY 18, 1847

Photograph by Lynwood Abbott. DONNER LAKE

Perplexities and heartaches multiplied with the morning hours of the
following day. Mr. Clark, being anxious to provide more food, started
early to hunt the wounded bear. He had not been gone long, when
Mr. Stone arrived from the lake cabins and told Mr. Cady that the other
members of the Relief had become alarmed at gathering storm clouds, and
had resolved to select at once the ablest among the emigrants and
hasten with them across the summit, and to leave Clark, Cady, and
himself to cut the necessary fuel for the camps, and otherwise assist
the sufferers until the Third Relief should reach them.

Cady and Stone, without waiting to inform Clark, promptly decided upon
their course of action. They knew the scarcity of provisions in camp,
the condition of the trail over the mountains, the probability of long,
fierce March storms, and other obstacles which might delay future
promised relief, and, terror-stricken, determined to rejoin their
party, regardless of opposition, and return to the settlement.

Mother, fearing that we children might not survive another storm in
camp, begged Messrs. Cady and Stone to take us with them, offering them
five hundred dollars in coin, to deliver us to Elitha and Leanna at
Sutter's Fort. The agreement was made, and she collected a few
keepsakes and other light articles, which she wished us to have, and
which the men seemed more than willing to carry out of the mountains.
Then, lovingly, she combed our hair and helped us to dress quickly for
the journey. When we were ready, except cloak and hood, she led us to
the bedside, and we took leave of father. The men helped us up the
steps and stood us up on the snow. She came, put on our cloaks and
hoods, saying, as if talking to herself, "I may never see you again,
but God will take care of you."

Frances was six years and eight months old and could trudge along quite
bravely, but Georgia, who was little more than five, and I, lacking a
week of four years, could not do well on the heavy trail, and we were
soon taken up and carried. After travelling some distance, the men left
us sitting on a blanket upon the snow, and went ahead a short distance
where they stopped and talked earnestly with many gesticulations. We
watched them, trembling lest they leave us there to freeze. Then
Frances said,

"Don't feel afraid. If they go off and leave us, I can lead you back to
mother by our foot tracks on the snow."

After a seemingly long time, they returned, picked us up and took us on
to one of the lake cabins, where without a parting word, they left us.

The Second Relief Party, of which these men were members, left camp on
the third of March. They took with them seventeen refugees—the Breen
and Graves families, Solomon Hook, Isaac
and Mary Donner, and Martha
and Thomas, Mr. Reed's two youngest children.

CHAPTER XIII

A FATEFUL CABIN—MRS. MURPHY GIVES MOTHERLY COMFORT—THE GREAT
STORM—HALF A BISCUIT—ARRIVAL OF THIRD RELIEF—"WHERE IS MY BOY?"

How can I describe that fateful cabin, which was dark as night to us
who had come in from the glare of day? We heard no word of greeting and
met no sign of welcome, but were given a dreary resting-place near the
foot of the steps, just inside the open doorway, with a bed of branches
to lie upon, and a blanket to cover us. After we had been there a short
time, we could distinguish persons on other beds of branches, and a man
with bushy hair reclining beside a smouldering fire.

Soon a child began to cry, "Give me some bread. Oh, give me some meat!"

Then another took up the same pitiful wail. It continued so long that I
wept in sympathy, and fastened my arms tightly around my sister
Frances' neck and hid my eyes against her shoulder. Still I heard that
hungry cry, until a husky voice shouted,

"Be quiet, you crying children, or I'll shoot you."

But the silence was again and again broken by that heart-rending plea,
and again and again were the voices hushed by the same terrifying
threat. And we three, fresh from our loving mother's embrace, believed
the awful menace no vain threat.

We were cold, and too frightened to feel hungry, nor were we offered
food that night, but next morning Mr. Reed's little daughter Mattie
appeared carrying in her apron a number of newly baked biscuits which
her father had just taken from the hot ashes of his camp fire. Joyfully
she handed one to each inmate of the cabin, then departed to join those
ready to set forth on the journey to the settlement. Few can know how
delicious those biscuits tasted, and how carefully we caught each
dropping crumb. The place seemed drearier after their giver left us,
yet we were glad that her father was taking her to her mother in
California.

Soon the great storm which had been lowering broke upon us. We were not
exposed to its fury as were those who had just gone from us, but we
knew when it came, for snow drifted down upon our bed and had to be
scraped off before we could rise. We were not allowed near the fire and
spent most of our time on our bed of branches.

Dear, kind Mrs. Murphy,
who for months had taken care of her own son
Simon, and her grandson George Foster, and little James Eddy, gave us a
share of her motherly attention, and tried to feed and comfort us.
Affliction and famine, however, had well nigh sapped her strength and
by the time those plaintive voices ceased to cry for bread and meat,
her willing hands were too weakened to do much for us.

I remember being awakened while there by two little arms clasped
suddenly and tightly about me, and I heard Frances say,

"No, she shall not go with you. You want to kill her!"

Near us stood Keseberg, the man with the bushy hair. In limping past
our sleeping place, he had stopped and said something about taking me
away with him, which so frightened my sisters that they believed my
life in danger, and would not let me move beyond their reach while we
remained in that dungeon. We spoke in whispers, suffered as much as the
starving children in Joseph's time, and were more afraid than Daniel in
the den of lions.

How long the storm had lasted, we did not know, nor how many days we
had been there. We were forlorn as children can possibly be, when Simon
Murphy, who was older than Frances, climbed to his usual "look out" on
the snow above the cabin to see if any help were coming. He returned to
us, stammering in his eagerness:

"I seen—a woman—on snow shoes—coming from the other camp! She's a
little woman—like Mrs. Donner.
She is not looking this way—and may
pass!"

Hardly had he spoken her name, before we had gathered around him and
were imploring him to hurry back and call our mother. We were too
excited to follow him up the steps.

She came to us quickly, with all the tenderness and courage needed to
lessen our troubles and soften our fears. Oh, how glad we were to see
her, and how thankful she appeared to be with us once more! We heard it
in her voice and saw it in her face; and when we begged her not to
leave us, she could not answer, but clasped us closer to her bosom,
kissed us anew for father's sake, then told how the storm had
distressed them. Often had they hoped that we had reached the cabins
too late to join the Relief—then in grieving anguish felt that we had,
and might not live to cross the summit.

She had watched the fall of snow, and measured its depth; had seen it
drift between the two camps making the way so treacherous that no one
had dared to cross it until the day before her own coming; then she
induced Mr. Clark to try to ascertain if Messrs. Cady and Stone had
really got us to the cabins in time to go with the Second Relief.

We did not see Mr. Clark, but he had peered in, taken observations, and
returned by nightfall and described to her our condition.

John Baptiste had promised to care for father in her absence. She left
our tent in the morning as early as she could see the way. She must
have stayed with us over night, for I went to sleep in her arms, and
they were still around me when I awoke; and it seemed like a new day,
for we had time for many cherished talks. She veiled from us the
ghastliness of death, telling us Aunt Betsy and both our little cousins
had gone to heaven. She said Lewis had been first to go, and his
mother had soon followed; that she herself had carried little Sammie
from his sick mother's tent to ours the very day we three were taken
away; and in order to keep him warm while the storm raged, she had laid
him close to father's side, and that he had stayed with them until "day
before yesterday."

I asked her if Sammie had cried for bread. She replied, "No, he was not
hungry, for your mother saved two of those little biscuits which the
relief party brought, and every day she soaked a tiny piece in water
and fed him all he would eat, and there is still half a biscuit left."

How big that half-biscuit seemed to me! I wondered why she had not
brought at least a part of it to us. While she was talking with Mrs.
Murphy, I could not get it out of my mind. I could see that broken
half-biscuit, with its ragged edges, and knew that if I had a piece, I
would nibble off the rough points first. The longer I waited, the more
I wanted it. Finally, I slipped my arm around mother's neck, drew her
face close to mine and whispered,

The two women were still talking in subdued tones, pouring the oil of
sympathy into each others' gaping wounds. Neither heard the sound of
feet on the snow above; neither knew that the Third Relief Party was
at hand, until Mr. Eddy and Mr. Foster came down the steps, and each
asked anxiously of Mrs. Murphy, "Where is my boy?"

Each received the same sorrowful answer—"Dead."

CHAPTER XIV

THE QUEST OF TWO FATHERS—SECOND RELIEF IN DISTRESS—THIRD RELIEF
ORGANIZED AT WOODWORTH'S RELAY CAMP—DIVIDES AND ONE HALF GOES TO
SUCCOR SECOND RELIEF AND ITS REFUGEES; AND THE OTHER HALF PROCEEDS TO
DONNER LAKE—A LAST FAREWELL—A WOMAN'S SACRIFICE.

It will be remembered that Mr. Eddy, being ill, was dropped out of the
First Relief at Mule Springs in February, and sent back to Johnson's
Ranch to await the return of this party, which had promised to bring
out his family. Who can realize his distress when it returned with
eighteen refugees, and informed him that his wife and little Maggie had
perished before it reached the camps, and that it had been obliged to
leave his baby there in care of Mrs. Murphy?

Disappointed and aggrieved, the afflicted father immediately set out on
horseback, hoping that he would meet his child on the trail in charge
of the Second Relief, which it seemed reasonable to expect would follow
closely in the footsteps of the first. He was accompanied by Mr.
Foster, of the Forlorn Hope, who had been forced to leave his own
little son at the camp in charge of Mrs. Murphy, its grandmother.

On the evening of the second day, the two reached
Woodworth's camp,
established as a relay station pursuant to the general plan of rescue
originally adopted. They found the midshipman in snug quarters with
several men to do his bidding. He explained that the lack of competent
guides had prevented his venturing among the snow peaks. Whereupon, Mr.
Eddy earnestly assured him that the trail of those who had already gone
up outlined the way.

After much deliberation, Woodworth and his men agreed to start out next
morning for the mountain camps, but tried to dissuade Mr. Eddy from
accompanying them on account of his apparent depleted condition.
Nevertheless both he and Mr. Foster remained firm, and with the party,
left the relay camp, crossed the low foothills and encamped for the
night on the Yuba River.

At dusk, Woodworth was surprised by the arrival of two forlorn-looking
individuals, whom he recognized as members of the Reed-Greenwood
Relief, which had gone up the mountain late in February and was
overdue. The two implored food for themselves, also for their seven
companions and three refugees, a mile back on the trail, unable to come
farther.

When somewhat refreshed, they were able to go more into detail, and the
following explanation of their plight was elicited:

"One of our men, Clark, is at Donner's Camp, and the other nine of us
left the cabins near the lake on the third of March, with seventeen of
the starving emigrants. The storm caught us as we crossed the summit,
and ten miles below, drove us into camp. It got so bad and lasted so
long that our provisions gave out, and we almost froze to death cutting
wood. We all worked at keeping the fires until we were completely
exhausted, then seeing no prospects of help coming to us, we left, and
made our way down here, bringing Reed's two children and Solomon Hook,
who said he could and would walk. The other fourteen that we brought
over the summit are up there at what we call
Starved Camp. Some are
dead, the rest without food."

Woodworth and two followers went at once with provisions to the near-by
sufferers, and later brought them down to camp.

Messrs. Reed and Greenwood stated that every available means had been
tried by them to get the seventeen unfortunates well over the summit
before the great storm reached its height. They said the physical
condition of the refugees was such, from the very start, that no
persuasion, nor warnings, nor threats could quicken their feeble steps.
All but three of the number were children, with their hands and feet
more or less frozen. Worse still, the caches on which the party had
relied for sustenance had been robbed by wild animals, and the severity
of the storm had forced all into camp, with nothing more than a
breastwork of brush to shelter them. Mrs. Elisabeth Graves died the
first night, leaving to the party the hopeless task of caring for her
emaciated babe in arms, and her three other children between the ages
of nine and five years. Soon, however, the five-year-old followed his
mother, and the number of starving was again lessened on the third
night when Isaac Donner went to sleep beside his sister and did not
waken. The storm had continued so furiously that it was impossible to
bury the dead. Days and nights were spent in steadfast struggling
against the threatening inevitable, before the party gave up; and
Greenwood and Reed, taking the two Reed children and also Solomon Hook,
who walked, started down the mountain, hoping to save their own lives
and perhaps get fresh men to complete the pitiful work which they had
been forced to abandon.

When Messrs. Reed and Greenwood closed their account of the terrible
physical and mental strain their party had undergone, "Mr. Woodworth
asked his own men of the relay camp, if they would go with him to
rescue those unfortunates at 'Starved Camp,' and received an answer in
the negative."[10]

The following morning there was an earnest consultation, and so
hazardous seemed the trail and the work to be done that for a time all
except Eddy and Foster refused to go farther. Finally,
John Stark
stepped forward, saying,

"Gentlemen, I am ready to go and do what I can for those sufferers,
without promise of pay."

ARRIVAL OF THE CARAVAN AT SANTA FÉ

ON THE BANKS OF THE SACRAMENTO RIVER

By guaranteeing three dollars per day to any man who would get supplies
to the mountain camps, and fifty dollars in addition to each man who
should carry a helpless child, not his own, back to the settlement,
Mr. Eddy[11] secured the services of
Hiram Miller, who had just come
down with the Second Relief; and Mr. Foster hired, on the same terms,
Mr. Thompson from the relay camp. Mr. Woodworth offered like
inducements, on Government account, to the rest of his men, and before
the morning was far advanced, with William H. Eddy acting as leader,
William Foster, Hiram Miller, Mr. Thompson,
John Stark,
Howard Oakley,
and Charles Stone (who had left us little ones at the lake camp)
shouldered their packs and began the ascent.

Meanwhile how fared it at Starved Camp? Mr. and Mrs. Breen being left
there with their own five suffering children and the four other poor,
moaning little waifs, were tortured by situations too heart-rending for
description, too pitiful to seem true. Suffice it to relate that Mrs.
Breen shared with baby Graves the last lump of loaf sugar and the last
drops of tea, of that which she had denied herself and had hoarded for
her own babe. When this was gone, with quivering lips she and her
husband repeated the litany and prayed for strength to meet the
ordeal,—then, turning to the unburied dead, they resorted to the only
means left to save the nine helpless little ones.

When Mr. Eddy and party reached them, they found much suffering from
cold and crying for "something to eat," but not the wail which precedes
delirium and death.

This Third Relief Party settled for the night upon the snow near these
refugees, who had twice been in the shadow of doom; and after giving
them food and fire, Mr. Eddy divided his force into two sections.
Messrs. Stark, Oakley, and Stone were to remain there and nurture the
refugees a few hours longer, then carry the small children, and conduct
those able to walk to Mule Springs, while Eddy and three companions
should hasten on to the cabins across the summit.[12]

Section Two, spurred on by paternal solicitude, resumed travel at four
o'clock the following morning, and crossed the summit soon after
sunrise. The nearer they approached camp, the more anxious Messrs. Eddy
and Foster became to reach the children they hoped to find alive.
Finally, they rushed ahead, as we have seen, to the Murphy cabin. Alas!
only disappointment met them there.

Even after Mrs. Murphy had repeated her pitiful answer, "Dead," the
afflicted fathers stood dazed and silent, as if waiting for the loved
ones to return.

Mr. Eddy was the first to recover sufficiently for action. Presently
Simon Murphy and we three little girls were standing on the snow under
a clear blue sky, and saw Hiram Miller and Mr. Thompson coming toward
camp.

The change was so sudden it was difficult to understand what had
happened. How could we realize that we had passed out of that loathsome
cabin, never to return; or that Mrs. Murphy, too ill to leave her bed,
and Keseberg, too lame to walk, by reason of a deep cleft in his heel,
made by an axe, would have to stay alone in that abode of wretchedness?

Nor could we know our mother's anguish, as she stepped aside to arrange
with Mr. Eddy for our departure. She had told us at our own camp why
she would remain. She had parted from us there and put us in charge of
men who had risked much and come far to do a heroic deed. Later she had
found us, abandoned by them, in time of direst need, and in danger of
an awful death, and had warmed and cheered us back to hope and
confidence. Now, she was about to confide us to the care of a party
whose leader swore either to save us or die with us on the trail. We
listened to the sound of her voice, felt her good-bye kisses, and
watched her hasten away to father, over the snow, through the pines,
and out of sight, and knew that we must not follow. But the influence
of her last caress, last yearning look of love and abiding faith will
go with us through life.

The ordeal through which she passed is thus told by Colonel
Thornton,
after a personal interview with Mr. Eddy:

Mrs. George Donner
was able to travel. But her husband was in a
helpless condition, and she would not consent to leave him while he
survived. She expressed her solemn and unalterable purpose, which no
danger or peril could change, to remain and perform for him the last
sad office of duty and affection. She manifested, however, the
greatest solicitude for her children, and informed Mr. Eddy that she
had fifteen hundred dollars in silver, all of which she would give
him, if he would save the lives of the children.

He informed her that he would not carry out one hundred dollars of
all she had, but that he would save her children or die in the
effort. The party had no provisions to leave for the sustenance of
these unhappy, unfortunate beings.

After remaining about two hours, Mr. Eddy informed Mrs. Donner that
he was constrained by force of circumstances to depart. It was
certain that George Donner
would never rise from the miserable bed
upon which he had lain down, worn by toil and wasted by famine.

A woman was probably never before placed in circumstances of greater
or more peculiar trial; but her duty and affection as a wife
triumphed over all her instincts of reason.

The parting scene between parent and children is represented as
being one that will never be forgotten, so long as life remains or
memory performs its functions.

My own emotions will not permit me to attempt a description which
language, indeed, has not power to delineate. It is sufficient to
say that it was affecting beyond measure; and that the last words
uttered by Mrs. Donner in tears and sobs to Mr. Eddy were, "Oh,
save, save my children!"

CHAPTER XV

SIMON MURPHY, FRANCES, GEORGIA, AND I TAKEN FROM THE LAKE CABINS BY THE
THIRD RELIEF—NO FOOD TO LEAVE—CROSSING THE SNOW—REMNANT OF THE
SECOND RELIEF OVERTAKEN—OUT OF THE SNOW—INCIDENTS OF THE
JOURNEY—JOHNSON'S RANCH—THE SINCLAIR HOME—SUTTER'S FORT.

When we left the lake cabin, we still wore the clothing we had on when
we came from our tent with Messrs. Cady and Stone. Georgia and I were
clad in quilted petticoats, linsey dresses, woollen stockings, and
well-worn shoes. Our cloaks were of a twilled material, garnet, with a
white thread interwoven, and we had knitted hoods to match. Frances'
clothing was as warm; instead of cloak, however, she wore a shawl, and
her hood was blue. Her shoes had been eaten by our starving dog before
he disappeared, and as all others were buried out of reach, mother had
substituted a pair of her own in their stead.

Mr. Foster took charge of Simon Murphy, his wife's brother, and Messrs.
Eddy and Miller carried Georgia and me. Mr. Eddy always called Georgia
"my girl," and she found great favor in his eyes, because in size and
looks she reminded him of his little daughter who had perished in that
storm-bound camp.

Our first stop was on the mountain-side overlooking the lake, where we
were given a light meal of bread and meat and a drink of water. When we
reached the head of the lake, we overtook Nicholas Clark and John
Baptiste who had deserted father in his tent and were hurrying toward
the settlement. Our coming was a surprise to them, yet they were glad
to join our party.

After our evening allowance of food we were stowed snugly between
blankets in a snow trench near the summit of the Sierras, but were so
hungry that we could hardly get to sleep, even after being told that
more food would do us harm.

Early next morning we were again on the trail. I could not walk at all,
and Georgia only a short distance at a time. So treacherous was the way
that our rescuers often stumbled into unseen pits, struggled among snow
drifts, and climbed icy ridges where to slip or fall might mean death
in the yawning depth below.

Near the close of this most trying day, Hiram M. Miller put me down,
saying wearily, "I am tired of carrying you. If you will walk to that
dark thing on the mountain-side ahead of us, you shall have a nice lump
of loaf sugar with your supper."

My position in the blanket had been so cramped that my limbs were stiff
and the jostling of the march had made my body ache. I looked toward
the object to which he pointed. It seemed a long way off; yet I wanted
the sugar so much that I agreed to walk. The wind was sharp. I
shivered, and at times could hardly lift my feet; often I stumbled and
would have fallen had he not held my hand tightly, as he half led,
half drew me onward. I did my part, however, in glad expectation of the
promised bit of sweetness. The sun had set before we reached our
landmark, which was a felled and blackened tree, selected to furnish
fuel for our night fire. When we children were given our evening
allowance of food, I asked for my lump of sugar, and cried bitterly on
being harshly told there was none for me. Too disappointed and fretted
to care for anything else, I sobbed myself to sleep.

Nor did I waken happy next morning. I had not forgotten the broken
promise, and was lonesome for mother. When Mr. Miller told me that I
should walk that day as far as Frances and Georgia did, I refused to go
forward, and cried to go back. The result was that he used rough means
before I promised to be good and do as he commanded. His act made my
sister Frances rush to my defence, and also, touched a chord in the
fatherly natures of the other two men, who summarily brought about a
more comfortable state of affairs.

When we proceeded on our journey, I was again carried by Mr. Miller in
a blanket on his back as young children are carried by Indians on long
journeys. My head above the blanket folds bobbed uncomfortably at every
lurch. The trail led up and down and around snow peaks, and under
overhanging banks that seemed ready to give way and crush us.

At one turn our rescuers stopped, picked up a bundle, and carefully
noted the fresh human foot prints in the snow which indicated that a
number of persons were moving in advance. By our fire that night, Mr.
Eddy opened the bundle that we had found upon the snow, and to the
surprise of all, Frances at once recognized in it the three silk
dresses, silver spoons, small keepsakes, and articles of children's
clothing which mother had intrusted to the care of Messrs. Cady and
Stone.

The spoons and smaller articles were now stowed away in the pockets of
our rescuers for safekeeping on the journey; and while we little girls
dressed ourselves in the fresh underwear, and watched our discarded
garments disappear in the fire, the dresses, which mother had planned
should come to us later in life, were remodelled for immediate use.

Mr. Thompson pulled out the same sharp pocket-knife, coarse black
thread, and big-eyed needle, which he had used the previous evening,
while making Frances a pair of moccasins out of his own gauntlet
gloves. With the help of Mr. Eddy, he then ripped out the sleeves, cut
off the waists about an inch above the skirt gathers, cut slits in the
skirts for arm-holes, and tacked in the sleeves. Then, with mother's
wish in mind, they put the dove-colored silk on Frances, the light
brown on Georgia, and the dark coffee-brown on me. Pleats and laps in
the skirt bands were necessary to fit them to our necks. Strings were
tied around our waists, and the skirts tacked up until they were of
walking length. These ample robes served for cloaks as well as dresses
for we could easily draw our hands back through the sleeves and keep
our arms warm beneath the folds. Thus comfortably clad, we began
another day's journey.

Before noon we overtook and passed Messrs. Oakley, Stone, and Stark,
having in charge the following refugees from Starved Camp: Mr. and Mrs.
Patrick Breen
and their five children;
Mary Donner, Jonathan Graves,
Nancy Graves, and baby Graves. Messrs. Oakley and Stone were in
advance, the former carrying Mary Donner over his shoulder; and the
latter baby Graves in his arms. Great-hearted John Stark had the care
of all the rest. He was broad-shouldered and powerful, and would stride
ahead with two weaklings at a time, deposit them on the trail and go
back for others who could not keep up. These were the remnant of the
hopeful seventeen who had started out on the third of March with the
Second Relief, and with whom mother had hoped we children would cross
the mountains.

It was after dark when our own little party encamped at the crossing of
the Yuba River. The following morning Lieutenant Woodworth and
attendants were found near-by. He commended the work done by the Third
Relief; yet, to Mr. Eddy's dismay, he declared that he would not go to
the rescue of those who were still in the mountains, because the warmer
weather was melting the snow so rapidly that the lives of his men would
be endangered should he attempt to lead them up the trail which we had
just followed down. He gave our party rations, and said that he would
at once proceed to Johnson's Ranch and from there send to Mule Springs
the requisite number of horses to carry to the settlement the persons
now on the trail.

Our party did not resume travel until ten o'clock that morning;
nevertheless, we crossed the snow line and made our next camp at Mule
Springs. There we caught the first breath of spring-tide, touched the
warm, dry earth, and saw green fields far beyond the foot of that cold,
cruel mountain range. Our rescuers exclaimed joyfully, "Thank God, we
are at last out of the snow, and you shall soon see Elitha and Leanna,
and have all you want to eat."

Our allowance of food had been gradually increased and our improved
condition bore evidence of the good care and kind treatment we had
received. We remained several days at Mule Springs, and were
comparatively happy until the arrival of the unfortunates from Starved
Camp, who stretched forth their gaunt hands and piteously begged for
food which would have caused death had it been given to them in
sufficient quantities to satisfy their cravings.

When I went among them I found my little cousin Mary sitting on a
blanket near Mr. Oakley, who had carried her thither, and who was
gently trying to engage her thoughts. Her wan face was wet with tears,
and her hands were clasped around her knee as she rocked from side to
side in great pain. A large woollen stocking covered her swollen leg
and frozen foot which had become numb and fallen into the fire one
night at Starved Camp and been badly maimed before she awakened to
feel the pain. I wanted to speak to her, but when I saw how lonesome
and ill she looked, something like pain choked off my words.

Her brother Isaac had died at that awful camp and she herself would not
have lived had Mr. Oakley not been so good to her. He was now
comforting her with the assurance that he would have the foot cared for
by a doctor as soon as they should reach the settlement; and she,
believing him, was trying to be brave and patient.

We all resumed travel on horseback and reached Johnson's Ranch about
the same hour in the day. As we approached, the little colony of
emigrants which had settled in the neighborhood the previous Autumn
crowded in and about the two-roomed adobe house which Mr. Johnson had
kindly set apart as a stopping place for the several relief parties on
their way to and from the mountains. All were anxious to see the
sufferers for whose rescue they had helped to provide.

Survivors of the Forlorn Hope and of the First Relief were also there
awaiting the arrival of expected loved ones. There Simon Murphy, who
came with us, met his sisters and brother; Mary Graves took from the
arms of Charles Stone, her slowly dying baby sister; she received from
the hands of John Stark her brother Jonathan and her sister Nancy, and
heard of the death of her mother and of her brother Franklin at Starved
Camp. That house of welcome became a house of mourning when Messrs.
Eddy and Foster repeated the names of those who had perished in the
snows. The scenes were so heart-rending that I slipped out of doors and
sat in the sunshine waiting for Frances and Georgia, and thinking of
her who had intrusted us to the care of God.

Before our short stay at the Johnson Ranch ended, we little girls had a
peculiar experience. While standing in a doorway, the door closed with
a bang upon two of my fingers. My piercing cry brought several persons
to the spot, and one among them sat down and soothed me in a motherly
way. After I was myself again, she examined the dress into which
Messrs. Thompson and Eddy had stitched so much good-will, and she said:

"Let me take off this clumsy thing, and give you a little blue dress
with white flowers on it." She made the change, and after she had
fastened it in the back she got a needle and white thread and bade me
stand closer to her so that she might sew up the tear which exposed my
knees. She asked why I looked so hard at her sewing, and I replied,

"My mother always makes little stitches when she sews my dresses."

No amount of pulling down of the sleeves or straightening out of the
skirt could conceal the fact that I was too large for the garment. As I
was leaving her, I heard her say to a companion, "That is just as good
for her, and this will make two for my little girl." Later in the day
Frances and Georgia parted with their silks and looked as forlorn as I
in calico substitutes.

Oh, the balm and beauty of that early morning when Messrs. Eddy,
Thompson, and Miller took us on horseback down the Sacramento Valley.
Under the leafy trees and over the budding blossoms we rode. Not
rapidly, but steadily, we neared our journey's end. Toward night, when
the birds had stopped their singing and were hiding themselves among
bush and bough, we reached the home of
Mr. and Mrs. John Sinclair on
the American River, thirty-five miles from Johnson's Ranch and only two
and a half from Sutter's Fort.

That hospitable house was over-crowded with earlier arrivals, but as it
was too late for us to cross the river, sympathetic Mrs. Sinclair said
that she would find a place for us. Having no bed to offer, she
loosened the rag-carpet from one corner of the room, had fresh straw
put on the floor, and after supper, tucked us away on it, drawing the
carpet over us in place of quilts.

We had bread and milk for supper that night, and the same good food
next day. In the afternoon we were taken across the river in an Indian
canoe. Then we followed the winding path through the tules to Sutter's
Fort, where we were given over to our half-sisters by those heroic men
who had kept their pledge to our mother and saved our lives.

CHAPTER XVI

ELITHA AND LEANNA—LIFE AT THE FORT—WATCHING THE COW PATH—RETURN OF
THE FALLON PARTY—KESEBERG BROUGHT IN BY THEM—FATHER AND MOTHER DID
NOT COME.

The room in which Elitha
and Leanna were staying when we arrived at
Sutter's Fort was part of a long, low, single-story adobe building
outside the fortification walls, and like others that were occupied by
belated travellers, was the barest and crudest structure imaginable. It
had an earthen floor, a thatched roof, a batten door, and an opening in
the rear wall to serve as window.

We little ones were oblivious of discomfort, however. The tenderness
with which we were received, and the bewildering sense of safety that
we felt, blinded us even to the anguish and fear which crept over our
two sisters, when they saw us come to them alone. How they suffered I
learned many years later from Elitha, who said, in referring to those
pitiful experiences:

After Sister Leanna and I reached the Fort with the First Relief, we
were put in different families to await our parents; but as soon as
the Second Relief was expected, we went to housekeeping, gathered
wood, and had everything ready. No one came. Then we waited and
watched anxiously for the Third Relief, and it was a sad sight to
see you three and no more.

I went in, kindled the fire, and gave you supper. I had a bed of
shavings hemmed in with poles for father and mother. They did not
come. We five lay down upon it, and Sister Leanna and I talked long
after you three were asleep, wondering what we should do. You had no
clothes, except those you wore, so the next day I got a little
cotton stuff and commenced making you some. Sister Leanna did the
cooking and looked after you, which took all her time.

The United States Army officer at the Port had left orders at
Captain Sutter's store, that we should be furnished with the
necessaries of life, and that was how we were able to get the food
and few things we had when you arrived.

Messrs. Eddy and Thompson did not tell my sisters that they had no
expectation of father's getting through, and considered mother's chance
very slight, but went directly to the Fort to report to
Colonel McKinstrey
and to Mr. Kerns what their party had accomplished, and to
inform them that Lieutenant Woodworth was about to break camp and
return to the settlement instead of trying to get relief to the four
unfortunates still at the mountain camp.

The return of the party after its fruitless efforts was not made known
to Elitha and Leanna; nor were they aware that Thomas Fallon, with six
companions, had set out for the mountain camps on the tenth of April.

Neither fear nor misgivings troubled us little ones the morning we
started out, hand in hand, to explore our new surroundings. We had
rested, been washed, combed, and fed, and we believed that father and
mother would soon come to us. Everything was beautiful to our eyes. We
did not care if "the houses did look as if they were made of dry dirt
and hadn't anything but holes for windows." We watched the mothers
sitting on the door sills or on chairs near them laughing as they
talked and sewed, and it seemed good to see the little children at play
and hear them singing their dolls to sleep.

The big gate to the adobe wall around Captain Sutter's home was open,
and we could look in and see many white-washed huts built against the
back and side walls, and a flag waving from a pole in front of the
large house, which stood in the middle of the ground. Cannons like
those we had seen at Fort Laramie were also peeping out of holes in
these walls, and an Indian soldier and a white soldier were marching to
and fro, each holding a gun against his shoulder, and it pointing
straight up in the air.

ELITHA DONNER (MRS. BENJAMIN WILDER)

LEANNA DONNER (MRS. JOHN APP)

MARY DONNER

GEORGE DONNER, NEPHEW OF CAPT. DONNER

Often we looked at each other and exclaimed, "How good to be here
instead of up in the snow." It was hard to go back to the house when
sisters called us. I do not remember the looks or the taste of
anything they gave us to eat. We were so eager to stay out in the
sunshine. Before long, we went to that dreary, bare room only to sleep.
Many of the women at the Fort were kind to us; gave us bread from their
scant loaves not only because we were destitute, but because they had
grateful recollection of those whose name we bore.

Once a tall, freckle-faced boy, with very red hair, edged up to where I
was watching others at play, and whispered:

"See here, little gal, you run get that little tin cup of yourn, and
when you see me come out of Mrs. Wimmer's house with the milk pail on
my arm, you go round yonder to the tother side of the cow-pen, where
you'll find a hole big enough to put the cup through. Then you can
watch me milk it full of the nicest milk you ever tasted. You needn't
say nothing to nobody about it. I give your little sister some last
time, and I want to do the same for you. I hain't got no mother
neither, and I know how it is."

When I got there he took the cup and, as he sat down under old Bossy,
smilingly asked if I liked lots of foam. I told him I did. He milked a
faster, stronger stream, then handed me the cup, full as he could carry
it, and a white cap of foam stood above its rim. I tasted it and told
him it was too good to drink fast, but he watched me until it was all
gone. Then, saying he didn't want thanks, he hurried me back to the
children. I never saw that boy again, but have ever been grateful for
his act of pure kindness.

Every day or two a horse all white with lather and dripping with sweat
would rush by, and the Indian or white man on his back would guide him
straight to Captain Kerns' quarters, where he would hand out papers and
letters. The women and children would flock thither to see if it meant
news for them. Often they were disappointed and talked a great deal
about the tediousness of the Mexican War
and the delays of Captain
Frémont's company. They wanted the war to end, and their men folk back
so that they could move and get to farming before it should be too late
to grow garden truck for family use.

While they thus anxiously awaited the return of their soldiers, we kept
watch of the cow-path by which we had reached the Fort; for Elitha had
told us that we might "pretty soon see the relief coming." She did not
say, "with father and mother"; but we did, and she replied, "I hope
so."

We were very proud of the new clothes she had made us; but the first
time she washed and hung them out to dry, they were stolen, and we were
again destitute. Sister Elitha thought perhaps strange Indians took
them.

In May, the Fallon party arrived with horses laden with many packs of
goods, but their only refugee was
Lewis Keseberg, from the cabin near
the lake.

It was evening, and some one came to our door, spoke to Elitha and
Leanna in low tones and went away. My sisters turned, put their arms
about us and wept bitterly. Then, gently, compassionately, the cruel,
desolating truth was told. Ah, how could we believe it? No anxious
watching, no weary waiting would ever bring father and mother to us
again!

CHAPTER XVII

ORPHANS—KESEBERG AND HIS ACCUSERS—SENSATIONAL ACCOUNTS OF THE TRAGEDY
AT DONNER LAKE—PROPERTY SOLD AND GUARDIAN APPOINTED—KINDLY
INDIANS—"GRANDPA"—MARRIAGE OF ELITHA.

The report of our affliction spread rapidly, and the well-meaning,
tender-hearted women at the Fort came to condole and weep with us, and
made their children weep also by urging, "Now, do say something
comforting to these poor little girls, who were frozen and starved up
in the mountains, and are now orphans in a strange land, without any
home or any one to care for them."

Such ordeals were too overwhelming. I would rush off alone among the
wild flowers to get away from the torturing sympathy. Even there, I met
those who would look at me with great serious eyes, shake their heads,
and mournfully say, "You poor little mite, how much better it would be
if you had died in the mountains with your dear mother, instead of
being left alone to struggle in this wicked world!"

This would but increase my distress, for I did not want to be dead and
buried up there under the cold, deep snow, and I knew that mother did
not want me to be there either. Had she not sent me away to save me,
and asked God, our Heavenly Father, to take care of me?

Intense excitement and indignation prevailed at the Fort after Captain
Fallon and other members of his party gave their account of the
conditions found at the mountain camps, and of interviews had with
Keseberg, whom they now called, "cannibal, robber, and murderer." The
wretched man was accused by this party, not only of having needlessly
partaken of human flesh, and of having appropriated coin and other
property which should have come to us orphaned children, but also of
having wantonly taken the life of Mrs. Murphy and of my mother.

Some declared him crazy, others called him a monster. Keseberg denied
these charges and repeatedly accused Fallon and his party of making
false statements. He sadly acknowledged that he had used human flesh to
keep himself from starving, but swore that he was guiltless of taking
human life. He stated that Mrs. Murphy had died of starvation soon
after the departure of the "Third Relief," and that my mother had
watched by father's bedside until he died. After preparing his body for
burial, she had started out on the trail to go to her children. In
attempting to cross the distance from her camp to his, she had strayed
and wandered about far into the night, and finally reached his cabin
wet, shivering, and grief-stricken, yet determined to push onward. She
had brought nothing with her, but told him where to find money to take
to her children in the event of her not reaching them. He stated that
he offered her food, which she refused. He then attempted to persuade
her to wait until morning, and while they were talking, she sank upon
the floor completely exhausted, and he covered her with blankets and
made a fire to warm her. In the morning he found her cold in death.

Keseberg's vehement and steadfast denial of the crimes of which he
stood accused saved him from personal violence, but not from suspicion
and ill-will. Women shunned him, and children stoned him as he walked
about the fort. The California Star printed in full the account of
the Fallon party, and blood-curdling editorials increased public
sentiment against Keseberg, stamping him with the mark of Cain, and
closing the door of every home against him.[14]

Elitha and Leanna tried to keep us little ones in ignorance of the
report that our father's body was mutilated, also of what was said
about the alleged murder of our mother. Still we did hear fragments of
conversations which greatly disturbed us, and our sisters found it
difficult to answer some of our questions.

Meanwhile, more disappointments for us were brewing at the fort.
Fallon's party demanded an immediate settlement of its claim. It had
gone up the mountains under promise that its members should have not
only a per diem as rescuers, but also one half of all the property
that they might bring to the settlement, and they had brought valuable
packs from the camps of the Donners. Captain Fallon also had two
hundred and twenty-five dollars in gold coin taken from concealment on
Keseberg's person, and two hundred and seventy-five dollars additional
taken from a cache that Keseberg had disclosed after the Captain had
partially strangled him, and otherwise brutally treated him, to extort
information of hidden treasure.

Keseberg did not deny that this money belonged to the Donners, but
asserted that it was his intention and desire to take it to the Donner
children himself as he had promised their mother.

Eventually, it was agreed that the Donner properties should be sold at
auction, and that "one half of the proceeds should be handed over to
Captain Fallon to satisfy the claims of his party, and the other half
should be put into the hands of a guardian for the support of the
Donner children." Hiram Miller
was appointed guardian by Alcalde
Sinclair.

Elitha was not yet fifteen years of age, and Leanna was two years
younger. They had not fully recovered from the effects of their long
privations and physical sufferings in the mountains; and the loss of
parents and means of support placed upon them responsibilities greater
than they could carry, no matter how bravely they strove to meet the
situation. "How can we provide for ourselves and these little
sisters?" was a question which haunted them by night and perplexed
them by day.

They had no way of communicating with our friends in Eastern States,
and the women at the Fort could ill afford to provide longer for us,
since their bread winners were still with Frémont, and their own
supplies were limited. Finally, my two eldest sisters were given
employment by different families in exchange for food, which they
shared with us; but it was often insufficient, and we little ones
drifted along forlornly. Sometimes home was where night overtook us.

Often, we trudged to the rancheria beyond the pond, made by the
adobe-moulders who had built the houses and wall surrounding the fort.
There the Indian mothers were good to us. They gave us shreds of smoked
fish and dried acorns to eat; lowered from their backs the queer little
baby-beds, called "bickooses," and made the chubby faces in them laugh
for our amusement. They also let us pet the dogs that perked up their
ears and wagged their tails as our own Uno used to do when he wanted to
frolic. Sometimes they stroked our hair and rubbed the locks between
their fingers, then felt their own as if to note the difference. They
seemed sorry because we could not understand their speech.

The pond also, with its banks of flowers, winding path, and dimpling
waters, had charms for us until one day's experience drove us from it
forever. We three were playing near it when a joyous Indian girl with a
bundle of clothes on her head ran down the bank to the water's edge.
We, following, watched her drop her bundle near a board that sloped
from a rock into nature's tub, then kneel upon the upper end and souse
the clothes merrily up and down in the clear water. She lathered them
with a freshly gathered soap-root and cleansed them according to the
ways of the Spanish mission teachers. As she tied the wet garments in a
bundle and turned to carry them to the drying ground, Frances espied
some loose yellow poppies floating near the end of the board and lay
down upon it for the purpose of catching them.

Georgia and I saw her lean over and stretch out her hand as far as she
could reach; saw the poppies drift just beyond her finger tips; saw her
lean a little farther, then slip, head first, into the deep water. Such
shrieks as terrified children give, brought the Indian girl quickly to
our aid. Like a flash, she tossed the bundle from her head, sprang into
the water, snatched Frances as she rose to the surface, and restored
her to us without a word. Before we had recovered sufficiently to
speak, she was gone.

Not a soul was in sight when we started toward the Fort, all
unconscious of what the inevitable "is to be" was weaving into our
lives.

We were too young to keep track of time by calendar, but counted it by
happenings. Some were marked with tears, some with smiles, and some
stole unawares upon us, just as on that bright June evening, when we
did not find our sisters, and aimlessly followed others to the little
shop where a friendly-appearing elderly man was cutting slices of meat
and handing them to customers. We did not know his name, nor did we
realize that he was selling the meat he handed out, only that we wanted
some. So, after all the others had gone, we addressed him, asking,

"Grandpa, please give us a little piece of meat."

He looked at us, and inquired whose children we were, and where we
lived. Upon learning, he turned about, lifted a liver from a wooden peg
and cut for each, a generous slice.

On our way out, a neighbor intercepted us and said that we should sleep
at her house that night and see our sisters in the morning. She also
gave us permission to cook our pieces of liver over her bed of live
coals. Frances offered to cook them all on her stick, but Georgia and I
insisted that it would be fun for each to broil her own. I, being the
smallest child, was given the shortest stick, and allowed to stand
nearest the fire. Soon the three slices were sizzling and browning from
the ends of three willow rods, and smelled so good that we could hardly
wait for them to be done. Presently, however, the heat began to burn my
cheeks and also the hand that held the stick. The more I wiggled about,
the hotter the fire seemed, and it ended in Frances having to fish my
piece of liver from among the coals, burned in patches, curled over
bits of dying embers, and pretty well covered with ashes, but she knew
how to scrape them away, and my supper was not spoiled.

Our neighbor gave us breakfast next morning and spruced us up a bit,
then led us to the house where a number of persons had gathered, most
of them sitting at table laughing and talking, and among them, Elitha
and Leanna. Upon our entrance, the merriment ceased and all eyes were
turned inquiringly toward us. Some one pointed to him who sat beside
our eldest sister and gayly said, "Look at your new brother." Another
asked, "How do you like him?" We gazed around in silent amazement until
a third continued teasingly, "She is no longer Elitha Donner, but Mrs.
Perry McCoon. You have lost your sister, for her husband will take her
away with him." "Lost your sister!" Those harrowing words stirred our
pent feelings to anguish so keen that he who had uttered them in sport
was touched with pity by the pain they caused.

Tears came also to the child-wife's eyes as she clasped her arms about
us soothingly, assuring us that she was still our sister, and would
care for us. Nevertheless, she and her husband slipped away soon on
horseback, and we were told that we were to stay at our neighbor's
until they returned for us.

This marriage, which was solemnized by Alcalde John Sinclair on the
fourth of June, 1847, was approved by the people at the Fort. Children
were anxious to play with us because we had "a married sister and a new
brother." Women hurried through noon chores to meet outside, and some
in their eagerness forgot to roll down their sleeves before they began
to talk. One triumphantly repeated to each newcomer the motherly advice
which she gave the young couple when she "first noticed his affection
for that sorrowing girl, who is too pretty to be in this new country
without a protector." They also recalled how
Perry McCoon's launch had
brought supplies up the river for the Second Relief to take over the
mountains; and how finally, he himself had carried to the bereaved
daughter the last accounts from Donner Camp.

Then the speakers wondered how soon Elitha would be back. Would she
take us three to live with her on that cattle ranch twenty-five miles
by bridle trail from the Fort? And would peace and happiness come to us
there?

See Appendix for account of the Fallon party, quoted from
Thornton's work.

CHAPTER XVIII

"GRANDMA"—HAPPY VISITS—A NEW HOME—AM PERSUADED TO LEAVE IT.

We were still without Elitha, when up the road and toward the Fort came
a stout little old woman in brown. On one arm she carried a basket, and
from the hand of the other hung a small covered tin pail. Her apron was
almost as long as her dress skirt, which reached below her ankles, yet
was short enough to show brown stockings above her low shoes. Two ends
of the bright kerchief which covered her neck and crossed her bosom
were pinned on opposite sides at the waist-line. A brown quilted hood
of the same shade and material as her dress and apron concealed all but
the white lace frill of a "grandma cap," which fastened under her chin
with a bow. Her dark hair drawn down plain to each temple was coiled
there into tiny wheels, and a brass pin stuck through crosswise to hold
each coil in place. Her bright, speaking eyes, more brown than gray,
gave charm to a face which might have been pretty had disease not
marred it in youth.

As she drew near, her wonderful eyes looked into our faces and won from
our lips a timid "Good morning, grandma."

That title, which we had been taught to use when speaking to the aged,
was new and sweet to her, who had never been blessed with child. She
set the basket on the ground, put the pail beside it, and caressed us
in a cheery way, then let us peep in and see what she had brought
especially for us. How did it happen? That is something we were to
learn later. Such luxuries,—eggs, bread, butter, cheese, and milk in
the dear little tin pail!

Seeing how thin and hungry we looked she gave each a piece of buttered
bread before going with us to our neighbor's house, where she left the
food, with instructions, in broken English, that it was for us three
little girls who had called her "grandma," and that we must not be
given too much at a time.

When next grandma came she took puny Georgia home with her, and left me
hugging the promise that I also should have a visit, if I would await
my turn patiently.

Who can picture my delight when Georgia got back and told me of all she
had seen? Cows, horses, pigs, and chickens, but most thrilling of all
was about the cross old sheep, which would not let her pass if she did
not carry a big stick in sight. Still, I should not have been so eager
to go, nor so gleeful on the way, had I known that the "good-bye" kiss
I gave my sister Frances at parting that day, would be the last kiss in
five long years.

Grandma was as happy as I. She could understand English better than she
could speak it, and in answering my questions, explained largely by
signs. "Courage," her gray poodle, left deep footprints in the dust,
as he trotted ahead over the well-known road, and I felt an increasing
affection for him upon learning that he, too, had crossed the plains in
an emigrant wagon and had reached the Fort at about the same time I had
reached the snow. He was so small that I imagined he must have been a
wee baby dog when he started, and that he was not yet half grown. My
surprise and admiration quickened beyond expression when grandma
assured me that he could do many tricks, understood French and German,
and was learning English.

Then she laughed, and explained that he was thus accomplished because
she and Christian Brunner, her husband, and Jacob, her brother-in-law,
had come from a place far away across lands and big waters where most
of the people spoke both French and German and that they had always
talked to Courage in one or the other of these languages.

As soon as we got into the house she opened the back door and called
"Jacob!" Then turning, she took a small cup of rennet clabber from the
shelf, poured a little cream over it, put a spoon in it, and set it on
the table before me. While I was eating, a pleasant elderly man came in
and by nods, motions, and words, partly English and partly something
else, convinced me that he liked little girls, and was glad to see me.
Then of a sudden, he clasped his hands about my waist and tossed me in
the air as father did before his hand was hurt, and when he wanted to
startle me, and then hear me laugh. This act, which brought back
loving memories, made Jacob seem nearer to me; nearer still when he
told me I must not call him anything but Jakie.

Everything about the house was as Georgia had described. Even the big
stick she had used to keep the old sheep from butting her over was
behind the door where she had left it.

When Christian Brunner got home from the Fort, grandma had supper
nearly ready, and he and I were friends the instant we looked into each
other's face; for he was "grandpa" who had given us the liver the
evening we did not find our sisters. He had gone home that night and
said: "Mary, at the Fort are three hungry little orphan girls. Take
them something as soon as you can. One child is fair, two are dark. You
will know them by the way they speak to you."

Grandpa had now hastened home to hold me on his lap and to hear me say
that I was glad to be at his house and intended to help grandma all I
could for being so good as to bring me there. After I told how we had
cooked the liver and how good it tasted, he wiped his eyes and said:
"Mine child, when you little ones thanked me for that liver, it made me
not so much your friend as when you called me 'grandpa.'"

As time went on, grandma declared that I helped her a great deal
because I kept her chip-box full, shooed the hens out of the house,
brought in the eggs, and drove the little chicks to bed, nights. I
don't recollect that I was ever tired or sleepy, yet I know that the
night must have sped, between the time of my last nod at the funny
shadow picture of a rabbit which Jakie made hop across the wall behind
the lighted candle, and Courage's barking near my pillow, which grandma
said meant, "Good-morning, little girl!"

It was after one of these reminders of a new day that I saw
Leanna. I
don't know when or how she came, but I missed Frances and Georgia the
more because I wanted them to share our comforts. Nevertheless a
strange feeling of uneasiness crept over me as I noticed, later, that
grandpa lingered and that the three spoke long in their own tongue, and
glanced often toward me.

Finally grandpa and Jakie went off in the wagon and grandma also
disappeared, but soon returned, dressed for a trip to the Fort, and
explained that she had heard that Georgia was sick and she would take
me back and bring her in my place. I had known from the beginning that
I was to stay only a little while, yet I was woefully disturbed at
having my enjoyment so abruptly terminated. My first impulse was to
cry, but somehow, the influence of her who under the soughing pines of
the Sierras had told me that "friends do not come quickly to a cry-baby
child" gave me courage, and I looked up into the dear old face before
me and with the earnestness of an anxious child asked, "Grandma, why
can't you keep two of us?"

She looked at me, hesitated, then replied, "I will see." She kissed
away my fears and rode off on old Lisa. I did not know that she would
ride farther than the fort and imagined she had gone on horseback so
that she might the easier bring back my little sister.

Leanna washed the dishes and did the other work before she joined me in
watching for grandma's return. At last she came in sight and I ran up
the road craning my neck to see if Georgia were really behind on old
Lisa's back, and when I saw her pinched face aglow with smiles that
were all for me, I had but one wish, and that was to get my arms around
her.

One chair was large enough to hold us both when we got into the house,
and the big clock on the wall with long weights reaching almost to the
floor and red roses painted around its white face, did not tick long
before we were deaf to its sound, telling each other about the doings
of the day.

She knew more than I, who listened intently as she excitedly went on:

"Me and Frances started to find you this morning, but we wasn't far
when we met Jacob in the wagon, and he stopped and asked us where we
was going. We told him. Then he told us to get in by him. But he didn't
come this way, just drove down to the river and some men lifted us out
and set us in a boat and commenced to paddle across the water. I knew
that wasn't the way, and I cried and cried as loud as I could cry, and
told them I wanted to go to my little sister Eliza, and that I'd tip
the boat over if they did not take me back; and one man said, 'It's too
bad! It ain't right to part the two littlest ones.' And they told me if
I'd sit still and stop crying they would bring me back with them by
and by, and that I should come to you. And I minded.

"Then they taked us to that house where we sleeped under the carpet the
night we didn't get to the Fort. Don't you remember? Well, lots of
people was there and talked about us and about father and mother, and
waited for grandma to come. Pretty soon grandma come, and everybody
talked, and talked. And grandma told them she was sorry for us, and
would take you and me if she could keep Leanna to help her do the work.
When I was coming away with grandma, Frances cried like everything. She
said she wanted to see you, and told the people mother said we should
always stay together. But they wouldn't let her come. They've gived her
to somebody else, and now she is their little girl."

We both felt sorry for Frances, and wished we could know where she was
and what she was doing.

While we were talking, grandma kept busily at work, and sometimes she
wiped her face with the corner of her apron, yet we did not think of
her as listening, nor of watching us, nor would we ever have known it,
had we not learned it later from her own lips, as she told others the
circumstances which had brought us into her life.

Some days later Georgia and I were playing in the back yard when Leanna
appeared at the door and called out in quick, jubilant tones:
"Children, run around to the front and see who has come!"

True enough, hitched to a stake near the front door was a bay horse
with white spots on his body and a white stripe down his face, and tied
to the pommel of his saddle was another horse with a side saddle on its
back. It did not take us long to get into the house where we found
Elitha and our new brother, who had come to arrange about taking us
away with them. While Elitha was talking to grandma and Leanna, Georgia
stood listening, but I sat on my new brother's knee and heard all about
his beautiful spotted horse and a colt of the same colors.

Elitha could not persuade Leanna or Georgia to go with her, nor was I
inclined to do so when she and grandma first urged me. But I began to
yield as the former told me she was lonesome; wanted at least one
little sister to live with her, and that if I would be that one, I
should have a new dress and a doll with a face. Then my new brother
settled the matter by saying: "Listen to me. If you'll go, you shall
have the pinto colt that I told you about, a little side saddle of your
own, and whenever you feel like it, you can get on it and ride down to
see all the folks." The prospects were so alluring that I went at once
with Leanna, who was to get me ready for the journey.

Leanna did not share my enthusiasm.
She said I was a foolish little
thing, and declared I would get lonesome on such a big place so far
away; that the colt would kick me if I tried to go near it, and that no
one ever made saddles for colts. She was not so gentle as usual when
she combed my hair and gave my face a right hard scrubbing with a cloth
and whey, which grandma bade her use, "because it makes the skin so
nice and soft."

Notwithstanding these discouragements, I took my clothes, which were
tied up in a colored handkerchief, kissed them all good-bye, and rode
away sitting behind my new brother on the spotted horse, really
believing that I should be back in a few days on a visit.

CHAPTER XIX

ON A CATTLE RANCH NEAR THE COSUMNE RIVER—"NAME BILLY"—INDIAN GRUB
FEAST.

We left the Fort and grandma's house far behind, and still rode on and
on. The day was warm, the wild flowers were gone, and the plain was
yellow with ripening oats which rustled noisily as we passed through,
crowding and bumping their neighborly heads together. Yet it was not a
lonesome way, for we passed elk, antelope, and deer feeding, with
pretty little fawns standing close to their mothers' sides. There were
also sleek fat cattle resting under the shade of live oak trees, and
great birds that soared around overhead casting their shadows on the
ground. As we neared the river, smaller birds of brighter colors could
be heard and seen in the trees along the banks where the water flowed
between, clear and cold.

All these things my sister pointed out to me as we passed onward. It
was almost dark before we came in sight of the adobe ranch house. We
were met on the road by a pack of Indian dogs, whose fierce looks and
savage yelping made me tremble, until I got into the house where they
could not follow.

The first weeks of my stay on the ranch passed quickly.
Elitha and I
were together most of the time. She made my new dress and a doll
which, was perfection in my eyes, though its face was crooked, and its
pencilled hair was more like pothooks than curls. I did not see much of
her husband, because in the mornings he rode away early to direct his
Indian cattle-herders at the rodeos, or to oversee other ranch work,
and I was often asleep when he returned nights.

The pinto colt he had promised me was, as Leanna had said, "big enough
to kick, but too small to ride," and I at once realized that my
anticipated visits could not be made as planned.

Occasionally, men came on horseback to stay a day or two, and before
the summer was over, a young couple with a small baby moved into one
part of our house. We called them
Mr. and Mrs. Packwood and Baby
Packwood. The mother and child were company for my sister, while the
husbands talked continually of ranches, cattle, hides, and tallow, so I
was free to roam around by myself.

In one of my wanderings I met a sprightly little Indian lad, whose face
was almost as white as my own. He was clad in a blue and white shirt
that reached below his knees. Several strings of beads were around his
neck, and a small bow and arrow in his hand. We stopped and looked at
each other; were pleased, yet shy about moving onward or speaking. I,
being the larger, finally asked,

"What's your name?"

To my great delight, he answered, "Name, Billy."

While we were slowly getting accustomed to each other, a good-natured
elderly squaw passed. She wore a tattered petticoat, and buttons,
pieces of shell, and beads of bird bones dangled from a string around
her neck. A band of buckskin covered her forehead and was attached to
strips of rawhide, which held in place the water-tight basket hanging
down her back. Billy now left me for her, and I followed the two to
that part of our yard where the tall ash-hopper stood, which ever after
was like a story book to me.

The squaw set the basket on the ground, reached up, and carefully
lifted from a board laid across the top of the hopper, several pans of
clabbered milk, which she poured into the basket. Instead of putting
the pans back, she tilted them up against the hopper, squatted down in
front and with her slim forefinger, scraped down the sides and bottom
of each pan so that she and Billy could scoop up and convey to their
mouths, by means of their three crooked fingers, all that had not gone
into the basket. Then she licked her improvised spoon clean and dry;
turned her back to her burden; replaced the band on her forehead; and
with the help of her stick, slowly raised herself to her feet and
quietly walked away, Billy after her.

Next day I was on watch early. My kind friend, the choreman, let me go
with him when he carried the lye from the hopper to the soap fat
barrel. Then he put more ashes on the hopper and set the pans of milk
in place for the evening call of Billy and his companion.

PAPOOSES IN BICKOOSES

SUTTER'S MILL, WHERE MARSHALL DISCOVERED GOLD, JANUARY 19, 1848

He pointed out the rancheria by the river where the Indian herders
lived with others of their tribe, among them, Billy and his mother.
He also informed me that the squaws took turns in coming for the milk,
and that Billy came as often as he got the chance; that he was a nice
little fellow, who had learned a few English words from his white papa,
who had gone off and left him.

Billy and I might never have played together as we did, if my
brother-in-law had not taken his wife to San Francisco and left me in
the care of Mr. and Mrs. Packwood. Their chief aim in life was to
please their baby. She was a dear little thing when awake, but the
house had to be kept very still while she slept, and they would raise a
hand and say, "Hu-sh!" as they left me, and together tip-toed to the
cradle to watch her smile in her sleep. I had their assurance that they
would like to let me hold her if her little bones were not so soft that
I might break them.

They were never unkind or cross to me. I had plenty to eat, and clean
clothes to wear, but they did not seem to realize how I yearned for
some one to love. So I went to Mr. Choreman. He told me about the
antelope that raced across the ranch before I was up; of the elk, deer,
bear, and buffalo he had shot in his day; and of beaver, otter, and
other animals that he had trapped along the rivers. Entranced with his
tales I became as excited as he, while listening to the dangers he had
escaped.

One day he showed me a little chair which I declared was the cunningest
thing I had ever seen. It had a high, straight back, just like those in
the house, only that it was smaller. The seat was made of strips of
rawhide woven in and out so that it looked like patchwork squares. He
let me sit on it and say how beautiful it was, before telling me that
he had made it all for me. I was so delighted that I jumped up, clasped
it in my arms and looked at him in silent admiration. I do not believe
that he could understand how rich and grateful I felt, although he
shook his head saying, "You are not a bit happier than I was while
making it for you, nor can you know how much good it does me to have
you around."

Gradually, Billy spent more time near the ranch house, and learned many
of my kind of words, and I picked up some of his. Before long, he
discovered that he could climb up on the hopper, and then he helped me
up. But I could not crook my fingers into as good a spoon as he did
his, and he got more milk out of the pan than I.

We did not think any one saw us, yet the next time we climbed up, we
found two old spoons stuck in a crack, in plain sight. After we got
through using them, I wiped them on my dress skirt and put them back.
Later, I met Mr. Choreman, who told me that he had put the spoons there
because I was too nice a little girl to eat as Billy did, or to dip out
of the same pan. I was ashamed and promised not to do so again, nor to
climb up there with him.

As time passed, I watched wistfully for my sister's return, and thought
a great deal about the folks at grandma's. I tried to remember all that
had happened while I was there, and felt sure they were waiting for me
to pay the promised visit. A great longing often made me rush out
behind a large tree near the river, where no one could see or hear me
feel sorry for myself, and where I would wonder if God was taking care
of the others and did not know where I lived.

I still feel the wondrous thrill, and bid my throbbing heart beat
slower, when I recall the joy that tingled through every part of my
being on that evening when, unexpectedly, Leanna and Georgia came to
the door. Yet, so short-lived was that joy that the event has always
seemed more like a disquieting dream than a reality; for they came at
night and were gone in the morning, and left me sorrowing.

A few months ago, I wrote to Georgia (now Mrs. Babcock), who lives in
the State of Washington, for her recollections of that brief reunion,
and she replied:

Before we went to Sonoma with Grandma Brunner in the Fall of 1847,
Leanna and I paid you a visit. We reached your home at dusk. Mr.
McCoon and Elitha were not there. We were so glad to meet, but our
visit was too short. You and I were given a cup of bread and milk
and sent to bed. Leanna ate with the grown folks, who, upon learning
that we had only come to say good-bye, told her we must for your
sake get away before you awoke next morning. We arose and got
started early, but had only gone a short distance when we heard your
pitiful cry, begging us to take you with us. Leanna hid her face in
her apron, while a man caught you and carried you back. I think she
cried all the way home. It was so hard to part from you.

Mr. Packwood carried me into the house, and both he and his wife felt
sorry for me. My head ached and the tears would come as often as any
one looked at me. Mrs. Packwood wet a piece of brown paper, laid it on
my forehead, and bade me lie on my bed until I should feel better. I
could not eat or play, and even Mr. Choreman's bright stories had lost
their charm.

"Come look, see squaw, papoose! Me go, you go?" exclaimed Billy
excitedly one soft gray morning after I had regained my spirits. I
turned in the direction he pointed and saw quite a number of squaws
trudging across an open flat with babies in bickooses, and larger
children scampering along at various paces, most of them carrying
baskets.

With Mrs. Packwood's permission, Billy and I sped away to join the
line. I had never been granted such a privilege before, and had no idea
what it all meant.

As we approached the edge of the marsh, the squaws walked more slowly,
with their eyes fixed upon the ground. Every other moment some of them
would be down, digging in the earth with forefinger or a little stick,
and I soon learned they were gathering bulbs about a quarter of an inch
in thickness and as large around as the smaller end of a woman's
thimble. I had seen the plants growing near the pond at the fort, but
now the bulbs were ripe, and were being gathered for winter use. In
accordance with the tribal custom, not a bulb was eaten during harvest
time. They grew so far apart and were so small that it took a long
while to make a fair showing in the baskets.

When no more bulbs could be found, the baskets were put on the ground
in groups, and the mothers carefully leaned their bickooses against
them in such positions that the wide awake papooses could look out from
under their shades and smile and sputter at each other in quaint Indian
baby-talk; and the sleeping could sleep on undisturbed.

That done, the squaws built a roaring fire, and one of them untied a
bundle of hardwood sticks which she had brought for the purpose, and
stuck them around under the fuel in touch with the hottest parts of the
burning mass. When the ends glowed like long-lasting coals, the waiting
crowd snatched them from their bed and rushed into the low thicket
which grew in the marsh. I followed with my fire-brand, but, not
knowing what to do with it, simply watched the Indians stick theirs
into the bushes, sometimes high up, sometimes low down. I saw them
dodge about, and heard their shouts of warning and their peals of
laughter. Then myriads of hornets came buzzing and swarming about. This
frightened me so that I ran back to where the brown babies were cooing
in safety.

Empty-handed, but happy, they at length returned, and though I could
not understand anything they were saying, their looks and actions
betokened what a good time they had had.

Years later, I described the scene to Elitha, who assured me that I had
been highly favored by those Indians for they had permitted me to
witness their annual "Grub Feast." The Piutes always use burning fagots
to drive hornets and other stinging insects from their nests, and they
also use heat in opening the comb cells so that they can easily remove
the larvae, which they eat without further preparation.

With the first cold snaps of winter, my feet felt the effect of former
frost bites, and I was obliged to spend most of my time within doors.
Fortunately Baby Packwood had grown to be quite a frolicsome child. She
was fond of me, and her bones had hardened so that there was no longer
danger of my breaking them when I lifted her or held her on my lap. Her
mother had also discovered that I was anxious to be helpful, pleased
when given something to do, and proud when my work was praised.

I was quite satisfied with my surroundings, when, unexpectedly, Mr.
McCoon brought my sister back, and once more we had happy times
together.

CHAPTER XX

I RETURN TO GRANDMA—WAR RUMORS AT THE FORT—LINGERING HOPE THAT MY
MOTHER MIGHT BE LIVING—AN INDIAN CONVOY—THE BRUNNERS AND THEIR HOME.

The Spring of 1848 was at hand when my brother-in-law said to me,
"Grandma Brunner wants you to come back to her; and if, you would like
to go, I'll take you to the Fort, as soon as the weather changes, and
leave you with the people who are getting ready to move north and are
willing to take you with them to Sonoma, where grandma now lives."

The storm was not over, but the day was promising, when my bundle of
clothes was again on the pommel of the saddle, and I ready to begin my
journey. I was so excited that I could hardly get around to say
good-bye to those who had gathered to see me off. We returned by the
same route that we had followed out on that warm June day, but
everything seemed different. The catkins on the willows were forming
and the plain was green with young grass.

As we neared the Fort we passed a large camp of fine-looking Indians
who, I was told, were the friendly Walla-Wallas, that came every spring
to trade ponies, and otter, and beaver-skins with Captain Sutter for
provisions, blankets, beads, gun caps, shot, and powder.

A large emigrant wagon stood near the adobe house where my new
brother-in-law drew rein. Before dismounting, he reached back, took me
by the arm and carefully supported me as I slid from the horse to the
ground. I was so stiff that I could hardly stand, but he led me to the
door where we were welcomed by a good-natured woman, to whom he said,

"Well, Mrs. Lennox, you see I've brought the little girl. I don't think
she'll be much trouble, unless she talks you to death."

Then he told her that I had, during the ride, asked him more questions
than a man six times his size could answer. But she laughed, and
"'lowed" that I couldn't match either of her three boys in asking
questions, and then informed him that she did not "calculate on making
the move until the roads be dryer and the weather settled." She
promised, however, that I should have good care until I could be handed
over to the Brunners. After a few words with her in private
Perry McCoon bade me good-bye, and passed out of my life forever.

I was now again with emigrants who had crossed the plains in 1846, but
who had followed the Fort Hall route and so escaped the misfortunes
that befell the Donner Party.

Supper over, Mrs. Lennox made me a bed on the floor in the far corner
of the room. I must have fallen asleep as soon as my head touched the
pillow, for I remember nothing more until I was awakened by voices, and
saw the candle still burning and Mrs. Lennox and two men and a woman
sitting near the table. The man speaking had a shrill voice, and his
words were so terrifying that I shook all over; my hair felt as though
it were trying to pull itself out by its roots; a cold sweat dampened
my clothes. I was afraid to move or to turn my eyes. Listening, I tried
to remember how many Indians he was talking about. I knew it must be a
great many, for it was such a long word. After they went away and the
house was dark, I still seemed to see his excited manner and to hear
him say:

"Mrs. Lennox, we've got to get out of here right away, for I heard tell
at the store before I come up that there's bound to be an Injun
outbreak. Them savages from Sonora are already on their way up, and
they'll kill and scalp every man, woman, and child they can ketch, and
there's nothing to keep them from ketching us, if we stay at this here
little fort any longer."

I lay awake a long while. I did not dare call out because I imagined
some of those Indians might have got ahead of the rest and be sneaking
up to our house at that very moment. I wondered where I could hide if
they should climb through the window, and I felt that Georgia would
never know what had become of me, if they should kill and scalp me.

As soon as Mrs. Lennox stirred in the morning, I ran to her and had a
good cry. She threatened all sorts of things for the man who had caused
me such torture, and declared that he believed everything he heard. He
did not seem to remember how many hundred miles away Sonora was, nor
how many loaded cannon there were at the Fort. I felt better satisfied,
however, when she told me that she had made up her mind to start for
Sonoma the next day.

After breakfast her younger boys wanted to see the Walla-Wallas, and
took me along. A cold breath from the Sierra Nevadas made me look up
and shiver. Soon Captains Sutter and Kern passed us, the former on his
favorite white horse, and the latter on a dark bay. I was delighted to
catch a glimpse of those two good friends, but they did not know it.
They had been to see the Indian ponies, and before we got to the big
gate, they had gone in and the Walla-Wallas were forming in line on
both sides of the road between the gate and the front of the store.

Only two Indians at a time were allowed to enter the building, and as
they were slow in making their trades, we had a good chance to see them
all. The men, the boys, and most of the women were dressed in fringed
buckskin suits and their hands and faces were painted red, as the Sioux
warriors of Fort Laramie painted their cheeks.

The Lennox boys took greatest interest in the little fellows with the
bows and arrows, but I could not keep my eyes from the young princess,
who stood beside her father, the chief. She was all shimmering with
beads. They formed flowers on her moccasins; fringed the outer seams of
her doeskin trousers and the hem of her tunic; formed a stripe around
her arm holes and her belt; glittered on a band which held in place the
eagle plume in her hair; dangled from her ears; and encircled her neck
and arms. Yet she did not seem to wear one too many. She looked so
winsome and picturesque that I have never forgotten the laughing,
pretty picture.

We started back over ground where my little sisters and I had wandered
the previous Spring. The people whom I remembered had since gone to
other settlements, and strangers lived in the old huts. I could not
help looking in as we passed, for I still felt that mother might not be
dead. She might have come down the mountain alone and perhaps I could
find her. The boys, not knowing why I lagged behind, tried to hurry me
along; and finally left me to go home by myself. This, not from
unkindness, but rather love of teasing, and also oblivion of the vain
hope I cherished.

Mrs. Lennox let me dry the dishes for her after the noon meal, then
sent me to visit the neighbor in the next house, while she should stow
her things in the wagon and get ready for the journey. I loved this
lady[15] in the next house as soon as she spoke to me, and I was
delighted with her baby, who reached out his little arms to have me
take him, and raised his head for me to kiss his lips. While he slept,
his mother sewed and talked with me. She had known my parents on the
plains, and now let me sit at her feet, giving me her workbox, that I
might look at its bobbins of different-colored thread and the pretty
needle-book. When I told her that the things looked a little like
mother's and that sometimes mother let me take the tiniest bit of her
wax, she gave me permission to take a tiny taste of that which I held
in my hand to see if it was like that which I remembered.

Only she, the baby, and I sat down to tea, yet she said that she was
glad she had company, for baby's papa was away with Captain Frémont,
and she was lonesome.

After I learned that she would have to stay until he came back, I was
troubled, and told what I had heard in the night. She assured me that
those in charge of the Fort heard every day all that was going on for
miles and miles around, and that if they should learn that fighting
Indians were coming, they would take all the white people and the good
Indians into the fort, and then shoot the bad ones with the cannon that
peeped through its embrasures.

The dainty meal and her motherly talk kept me a happy child until I
heard the footsteps of the Lennox boys. I knew they were coming for me,
and that I should have to sleep in that dark room where I had been so
afraid. Quickly slipping from my chair, under the table, and hiding
behind my new friend's dress skirt, I begged her not to let them know
where I was, and please, to let me stay with her all night. I listened
as she sent the boys back to tell their mother that she would keep me
until morning, adding that she would step in and explain matters after
she put her baby to bed. Before I went to sleep she heard me say my
prayers and kissed me good-night.

When I awoke next morning, I was not in her house, but in Mrs. Lennox's
wagon, on the way to Sonoma.

The distance between the Fort and Sonoma was only about eighty miles,
yet the heavy roads and the frequent showers kept us on the journey
more than a week. It was still drizzling when we reached the town and
Mrs. Lennox learned where the Brunners lived. I had been told that they
would be looking for me, and I expected to go to them at once.

As we approached the west bank of the creek, which winds south past the
town, we could see the branches on the trees in grandma's dooryard
swaying. Yet we could not reach there, because a heavy mountain storm
had turned a torrent into the creek channel, washed away the foot
bridge, and overflowed the low land. Disappointed, we encamped on high
ground to wait for the waters to recede.

Toward evening, Jakie gathering his cows on the opposite side, noticed
our emigrant wagon, and oxen, and as he drew nearer recognized Mrs.
Lennox. Both signalled from where they stood, and soon he descried me,
anxious to go to him. He, also, was disappointed at the enforced delay,
and returned often to cheer us, and to note the height of the water. It
seemed to me that we had been there days and days, when a Mission
Indian on a gray pony happened to come our way, and upon learning what
was wanted, signalled that he would carry me over for a Mexican silver
dollar. Jakie immediately drew the coin from his pocket and held it
between thumb and forefinger, high above his head in the sunshine, to
show the native that his price would be paid.

Quickly the Indian dismounted, looked his pony over carefully, cinched
the blanket on tighter, led him to the water's edge, and turned to me.
I shuddered, and when all was ready, drew near the deep flowing current
tremblingly, yet did not hesitate; for my loved ones were beyond, and
to reach them I was willing to venture.

The Indian mounted and I was placed behind him. By sign, he warned me
not to loosen my hold, lest I, like the passing branches, should become
the water's prey. With my arms clasped tightly about his dusky form,
and his elbows clamped over them, we entered the stream. I saw the
water surge up around us, felt it splash over me! Oh, how cold it was!
I held my breath as we reached the deepest part, and in dread clung
closer to the form before me. We were going down stream, drifting past
where Jakie stood! How could I know that we were heading for the safe
slope up the bank where we landed?

The Indian took his dollar with a grunt of satisfaction, and Jakie bade
me wave to the friends I had left behind, as he put me on old Lisa's
back and hurried off to grandma, Leanna, and Georgia, waiting at the
gate to welcome me home.

Georgia had a number of patches of calico and other trinkets which she
had collected for me, and offered them as soon as we had exchanged
greetings, then eagerly conducted me about the place.

Grandma was more energetic and busier than at the Fort, and I could
only talk with her as she worked, but there was so much to see and hear
that before nightfall my feet were heavy and my brain was weary.
However, a good sleep under the roof of those whom I loved was all the
tonic I needed to prepare me for a fair start in the new career, and
grandma's assurance, "This be your home so long as you be good," filled
me with such gladness that, childlike, I promised to be good always and
to do everything that should be required of me.

Most of the emigrants in and around the Pueblo of Sonoma were Americans
from the western frontiers of the United States. They had reached the
province in the Summer or early Autumn of 1846, and for safety had
settled near this United States Army post. Here they had bought land
and made homes within neighboring distance of each other and begun life
anew in simple, happy, pioneer fashion. The Brunners were a different
type. They had immigrated from Switzerland and settled in New Orleans,
Louisiana, when young, and by toil and economy had saved the snug sum
of money which they brought to invest in California enterprises.

They could speak and read French and German, and had some knowledge of
figures. Being skilled in the preparation of all the delicacies of the
meat market, and the products of the dairy, they had brought across the
plains the necessary equipment for both branches of business, and had
already established a butcher shop in the town and a dairy on the
farm, less than a mile from it.

Jakie was busy and useful at both places, but grandpa was owner of the
shop, and grandma of the dairy. Her hand had the cunning of the Swiss
cheese-maker, and the deftness of the artist in butter moulding. She
was also an experienced cook, and had many household commodities
usually unknown to pioneer homes. They were thus eminently fitted for
life in a crude new settlement, and occupied an important place in the
community.

A public road cut their land into two unequal parts. The cattle corrals
and sheds were grouped on one side of the road, and the family
accommodations on the other. Three magnificent oaks and a weird,
blackened tree-trunk added picturesqueness to the ground upon which the
log cabin and outbuildings stood. The trim live oak shaded the adobe
milk-room and smoke-house, while the grand old white oak spread its
far-reaching boughs over the curbed well and front dooryard.

PLAZA AND BARRACKS OF SONOMA

ONE OF THE OLDEST BUILDINGS IN SONOMA

The log cabin was a substantial three-roomed structure. Its two outer
doors opened with latch strings and were sawed across just above the
middle, so that the lower sections might be kept closed against the
straying pigs and fowls, while the upper part remained open to help the
windows opposite give light and ventilation. The east end formed the
ample store-room with shelves for many stages of ripening cheese. The
west end served as sleeping apartment for all except Jakie. The large
middle room was set apart as kitchen and general living room.
Against its wall were braced the dear old clock and conveniences for
holding dishes, and the few keepsakes which had shared the wanderings
of their owners on two continents.

The adobe chimney, which formed part of the partition between the
living and the sleeping apartment, gave a huge fireplace to each. From
the side of the one that cheered the living room, swung a crane worthy
of the great copper cheese kettle that hung on its arm. In tidy rows on
the chimney shelf stood bottles and boxes of medicine, two small brass
kettles, and six bright candlesticks with hoods, trays, and snuffers to
match. On the wide hearth beneath were ranged the old-fashioned
three-legged iron pots, dominated by the large round one, used as a
bake oven. Hovering over the fire sat the iron tea-kettle, with its
slender throat and pointed lips, now warmed to song by the blazing
logs, now rattling its lid with increasing fervor.

A long table with rough redwood benches around it, a few
straight-backed chairs against the wall, and Jakie's half-concealed
bed, in the far corner, constituted the visible furnishings of this
memorable room, which was so spick and span in German order and
cleanliness, that even its clay floor had to be sprinkled in regular
spots and rings before being swept.

It was under the great oaks that most of the morning work was done.
There the pails and pans were washed and sunned, the meats chopped, the
sausage made, head-cheese moulded, ham and bacon salted, and the lard
tried out over the out-door fires. Among those busy scenes, Georgia
and I spent many happy hours, and learned some of our hardest lessons;
for to us were assigned regular tasks, and we were also expected to do
the countless little errands which save steps to grown people, and are
supposed not to tire the feet of children.

Grandma, stimulated by the success of her mixing and moulding, and
elated by the profit she saw in it, was often too happy and bustling to
remember how young we were, or that we got tired, or had worries of our
own to bear.

Our small troubles, however, were soon forgotten, when we could slip
away for a while to the lovely playhouse which Leanna had secretly made
for us in an excavation in the back yard. There we forgot work, used
our own language, and played we were like other children; for we owned
the beautiful cupboard dug in the wall, and the pieces of Delft and
broken glass set in rows upon the shelves, also the furniture, made of
stumps and blocks of wood, and the two bottles standing behind the
brush barricade to act as sentries in case of danger during our
absence.

One stolen visit to that playhouse led me into such disgrace, that
grandma did not speak to me the rest of the day, and told Jakie all
about it.

In the evening, when no one else was near, he called me to him. I
obeyed with downcast head. Putting his hand under my chin, and turning
my face up, he made me look straight into his eyes, as he asked,

"Who broke dat glass cup vat grandma left on die dinner table full of
milk, and telled you watch it bis Hendrik come to his dinner, or bis
she be done mit her nap?"

I tried to turn my eyes down, but he would not let me, and I faltered,
"The chicken knocked it off,—but he left the door open so it could get
in."

Then, he raised his other hand, shook his finger, and in awe-inspiring
tone continued: "Yes, I be sure die chicken do dat, but vot for you
tell grandma dat Heinrick do dat? Der debil makes peoples tell lies,
and den he ketch sie for his fire, und he vill ketch you, if you do dat
some more. Gott, who you mutter telled you 'bout, will not love you. I
will not love you, if you do dat some more. I be sorry for you, because
I tought you vas His little girl, and mine little girl."

Jakie must have spent much time in collecting so many English words,
and they were effective, for before he got through repeating them to
me, I was as heart-sore and penitent as a child could be.

After he had forgiven me, he sent me to grandma, later to acknowledge
my wrong to Hendrik, and before I slept, I had to tell God what a bad
child I had been, and ask Him to make me good.

I had promised to be very careful and to try never to tell another lie,
and I had been unhappy enough to want to keep the promise. But, alas,
my sympathy for Jakie led me into more trouble, and it must have been
on Sunday too, for he was not working, but sitting reverently under the
tree with his elbows upon a table, and his cheeks resting in the
hollows of his hands. Before him lay the Holy Scriptures from which he
was slowly reading aloud in solemn tones.

Georgia and I standing a short distance from him, listened very
intently. Not hearing a single English word, and not understanding many
of the German, I became deeply concerned and turning to her asked,

"Aren't you awful sorry for poor Jakie? There he is, reading to God in
German, and God can't understand him. I'm afraid Jakie won't go to
heaven when he dies."

My wise little sister turned upon me indignantly, assuring me that "God
sees everybody and understands everybody's talk." To prove the truth of
her statement, she rushed to the kitchen and appealed to grandma, who
not only confirmed Georgia's words, but asked me what right I had to
believe that God was American only, and could not understand good
German people when they read and spoke to Him? She wanted to know if I
was not ashamed to think that they, who had loved me, and been kind to
me would not go to Heaven as well as I who had come to them a beggar?
Then she sent me away by myself to think of my many sins; and I,
weeping, accepted banishment from Georgia, lest she should learn
wickedness from me.

Georgia was greatly disturbed on my account, because she believed I had
wilfully misrepresented God, and that He might not forgive me. When
Jakie learned what had happened, he declared that I had spoken like a
child, and needed instruction more than punishment. So for the purpose
of broadening my religious views, and keeping before me the fact that
"God can do all things and knows all languages," grandma taught me the
Lord's Prayer in French and German, and heard me repeat it each night
in both languages, after I had said it as taught me by my mother.

It was about this time, that Leanna confided to me that she was
homesick for Elitha, and she would go to her very soon. She said that I
must not object when the time came, for she loved her own sister just
as much as I did mine, and was as anxious to go to Elitha as I had been
to come to Georgia. She had been planning several weeks, and knew of a
family with which she could travel to Sutter's Fort. Later, when she
collected her things to go away, she left with us a pair of beautifully
knit black silk stockings, marked near the top in fine cross-stitch in
white, "D," and under that "5." The stockings had been our mother's.
She had knit them herself and worn them. Georgia gave one to me and
kept the other. We both felt that they were almost too sacred to
handle. They were our only keepsakes.

Later, Georgia found a small tin box in which mother had kept important
papers. Recently, when referring to that circumstance, Georgia said:
"Grandma for a long time had used it for a white-sugar box, and kept it
on a shelf so high that we could see it only when she lifted it down;
and I don't think we took our eyes from it until it was put back. We
felt that it was too valuable for us ever to own. One day, I found it
thrown away. One side had become unsoldered from the ends and the
bottom also was hanging loose. With a full heart, I grasped the
treasure and put it where we could often see it. Long afterwards, Harry
Huff kindly offered to repair it; and the solder that still holds it
together is also regarded as a keepsake from a dear friend."

Mrs. Andrew J. Grayson, wife of the well-known
ornithologist, frequently referred to as the "Audubon of the West."

CHAPTER XXI

MORAL DISCIPLINE—THE HISTORICAL PUEBLO OF SONOMA—SUGAR PLUMS.

Grandma often declared that she loved me, and did not want to be too
severe; but, for fear that I had learned much wickedness from the
little Indians with whom I had played after I left her at the Fort, she
should watch me very closely herself, and also have Georgia tell her
whenever she should see me do wrong. Consequently, for a while after I
reached Sonoma, I was frequently on the penitential bench, and was as
often punished for fancied misdoings as for real ones. Yet, I grant
that grandma was warranted in being severe the day that she got back
from town before I was ready for her.

She had left us with the promise that she would bring us something nice
if we would be good children and do certain work that she had planned.
After we had finished the task, we both became restless, wondered how
soon she would come back, and what we could do next to keep from being
lonesome. Then I espied on the upper shelf the cream-colored sugar
bowl, with the old-fashioned red roses and black foliage on its cover
and sides. Grandma had occasionally given us lumps of sugar out of it;
and I now asked Georgia if I hadn't better get it down, so that we
could each have a lump of sugar. Hesitatingly, she said, "No, I am
afraid you will break it." I assured her that I would be very careful,
and at once set a chair in place and climbed up. It was quite a strain
to reach the bowl, so I lifted it down and rested it on the lower
shelf, expecting to turn and put it into Georgia's hands. But, somehow,
before I could do this, the lid slipped off and lay in two pieces upon
the floor. Georgia cried out reproachfully,

"There, you know I didn't want you to do it, and now you will get a
good whipping for breaking grandma's best sugar bowl!"

I replied loftily that I was not afraid, because I would ask God to
mend it for me. She did not think He would do it, but I did. So I
matched the broken edges and put it on the chair, knelt down before it
and said "Please" when I made my request. I touched the pieces very
carefully, and pleaded more earnestly each time that I found them
unchanged. Finally, Georgia, watching at the door, said excitedly,
"Here comes grandma!"

I arose, so disappointed and chagrined that I scarcely heard her as she
entered and spoke to me. I fully believed that He would have mended
that cover if she had remained away a little longer; nevertheless, I
was so indignant at Him for being so slow about it, that I stood
unabashed while Georgia told all that had happened. The whipping I got
did not make much impression, but the after talks and the banishment
from "good company" were terrible.

Later, when I was called from my hiding-place, grandma saw that I had
been very miserable, and she insisted upon knowing what I had been
thinking about. Then I told her, reluctantly, that I had talked to God
and told Him I did not think that He was a very good Heavenly Father,
or He would not let me get into so much trouble; that I was mad at Him,
and didn't believe He knew how to mend dishes. She covered her face
with her apron and told me, sobbingly, that she had expected me to be
sorry for getting down her sugar bowl and for breaking its cover; that
I was so bad that I would "surely put poor old grandma's gray hair in
her grave, who had got one foot there already and the other on the
brink."

This increased my wretchedness, and I begged her to live just a little
longer so that I might show her that I would be good. She agreed to
give me another trial and ended by telling me about the "beautiful,
wicked angel who had been driven out of paradise, and spends his time
coaxing people to be bad, and then remembers them, and after they die,
takes them on his fork and pitches them back and forth in his fire."
Jakie had told me his name and also the name of his home.

Toward evening, my head ached, and I felt so ill that I crept close to
grandma and asked sorrowfully if she thought the devil meant to have me
die that night, and then take me to his hell. At a glance, she saw that
I suffered, and drew me to her, pillowed my head against her bosom and
soothingly assured me that I would be forgiven if I would make friends
with God and remember the lesson that I had learned that day. She told
me, later, I must never say "devil," or "hell," because it was not nice
in little girls, but that, instead, I might use the words, "blackman,"
and "blackman's fires." At first, I did not like to say it that way,
because I was afraid that the beautiful devil might think that I was
calling him nicknames and get angry with me.

Notwithstanding my shortcomings, the Brunners were very willing to keep
me, and strove to make a "Schweitzer child" of me, dressed me in
clothes modelled after those which grandma wore when she was small, and
by verse and legend filled my thoughts with pictures of their Alpine
country. I liked the German language, learned it rapidly and soon could
help to translate orders. Those which pleased grandma best were from
the homes of Mr. Jacob Leese, Captain Fitch,
Major Prudon, and
General Vallejo; for their patronage influenced other distinguished Spanish
families at a distance to send for her excellent cheese and fancy pats
of butter. Yet, with equal nicety, she filled the orders that came from
the mess-room of the officers of our own brave boys in blue, and always
tried to have a better kerchief and apron on the evenings that officers
and orderly rode out to pay the bills.

Visitors felt more than a passing interest in us two little ones, for
accounts of the sufferings of the Donner Party had been carried to all
the settlements on the Pacific coast and had been sent in print or
writings to all parts of the United States as a warning against further
emigration to California by way of Hastings Cut-Off. Thus the name we
bore awakened sympathy for us, and in the huts of the lowly natives as
well as in the homes of the rulers of the province, we found welcome
and were greeted with words of tenderness, which were often followed by
prayers for the repose of the souls of our precious dead.

Marked attentions were also shown us by officers and soldiers from the
post. The latter gathered in the evenings at the Brunner home for
social intercourse. Some played cards, checkers, and dominoes, or
talked and sang about "des Deutschen Vaterland." Others reviewed
happenings in our own country, recalled battles fought and victories
won. And we, sitting between our foster grandparents, or beside Jakie,
listening to their thrilling tales, were, unwittingly, crammed with
crumbs of truth and fiction that made lasting impressions upon our
minds.

Nor were these odd bits of knowledge all we gained from those soldier
friends. They taught us the alphabet, how to spell easy words, and then
to form letters with pencil. They explained the meaning of fife and
drum calls which we heard during the day, and in mischievous
earnestness, declared that they, the best fighters of Colonel
Stephenson's famous regiment of New York Volunteers, had pledged their
arms and legs to our defence, and had only come to see if we were
worth the price they might have to, pay. Yet they made grim faces when,
all too soon, the retreat call from the barracks sounded, and away they
would have to go on the double quick, to be at post by the time of roll
call, and in bed at sound of taps.

On those evenings when grandma visited the sick, or went from home on
errands, we children were tucked away early in our trundle bed. There,
and by ourselves, we spoke of mother and the mountains. Not
infrequently, however, our thoughts would be recalled to the present by
loud, wailing squeak-squawk, squeak-squawks. As the sound drew nearer
and became shriller, we would put our fingers in our ears to muffle the
dismal tones, which we knew were only the creakings of the two wooden
wheels of some Mexican carreta, laboriously bringing passengers to
town, or perhaps a cruder one carrying hides to the embarcadero, or
possibly supplies to adjacent ranchos. We wondered how old people and
mothers with sick children could travel in such uncomfortable vehicles
and not become distracted by their nerve-piercing noises. Then, like a
bird-song, pleasanter scenes would steal in upon our musings, of gay
horseback parties on their way to church feasts, or fandangos, preceded
or followed by servants in charge of pack animals laden with luggage.

We rarely stayed awake long enough to say all we wished about the
Spanish people. Their methods of travel, modes of dress, and
fascinating manners were sources of never-ending discussion and
interest.

OLD MEXICAN CARRETA

RESIDENCE OF JUDGE A.L. RHODES, A TYPICAL CALIFORNIA HOUSE OF THE BETTER CLASS IN 1849

We had seen princely dons of many leagues ride by in state; dashing
caballeros resplendent in costumes of satin and velvet, on their way
to sing beneath the windows of dark-eyed señoritas; and had stood
close enough to the wearers of embroidered and lace-bedecked small
clothes, to count the scallops which closed the seams of their outer
garments, and to hear the faint tinkle of the tiny silver bells which
dangled from them. We had feasted our eyes on magnificently robed
señoras and señoritas; caught the scent of the roses twined in
their hair, and the flash of jewels on their persons.

Such frequent object-lessons made the names and surroundings of those
grandees easy to remember. Some lived leagues distant, some were near
neighbors in that typical Mexican Pueblo of Sonoma, whose adobe walls
and red-tiled roofs nestled close to the foot of the dimpled hills
overlooking the valley from the north, and whose historic and romantic
associations were connected with distinguished families who still
called it home.

Foremost among the men was
General Mariano Guadalupe Vallejo, by whom
Sonoma was founded in 1834, upon ground which had twice been
consecrated to Mission use. First by Padre Altemera, who had, in 1823,
established there the church and mission building of San Francisco
Solano. And four years later, after hostile Indians had destroyed the
sacred structures, Padre Fortune, under protection of Presidio Golden
Gate, blessed the ashes and rebuilt the church and the parochial
houses named last on the list of the historic Missions of California.

The Vallejo home covered the largest plot of ground on the north side
of the plaza, and its great house had a hospitable air, despite its
lofty watchtower, begrimed by sentry holes, overlooking every part of
the valley.

During the period that its owner was commandante of the northern
frontier, the Vallejo home was headquarters for high officials of the
province. But after
Commodore Sloat raised the Stars and Stripes at
Monterey, General Vallejo espoused the cause of the United States, put
aside much of his Spanish exclusiveness, and opened his doors to
Americans as graciously as to friends of his own nationality.

A historic souvenir greatly prized by Americans in town and valley was
the flag pole, which in Sonoma's infancy had been hewn from the distant
mountain forest, and brought down on pack animals by mission Indians
under General Vallejo's direction. It originally stood in the centre of
the plaza, where it was planted with sacred ceremonials, and where amid
ringing cheers of "Viva Mexico!" it first flung to the breeze that
country's symbolical banner of green, white, and red. Through ten
fitful years it loyally waved those colors; then followed its brief
humiliation by the Bear Flag episode, and early redemption by order of
Commodore Sloat, who sent thither an American flag-bearer to invest it
with the Stars and Stripes. Thereafter, a patriotic impulse suggested
its removal to the parade ground of the United States Army post, and
as Spanish residents looked upon it as a thornful reminder of lost
power they felt no regret when Uncle Sam's boys transplanted it to new
environments and made it an American feature by adoption.

But the Mexican landmark which appealed to me most pathetically was the
quaint rustic belfry which stood solitary in the open space in front of
the Mission buildings. Its strong columns were the trunks of trees that
looked as though they might have grown there for the purpose of
shouldering the heavy cross-beams from which the chimes hung. Its
smooth timbers had been laboriously hewn by hand, as must be the case
in a land where there are no saw mills. The parts that were not bound
together with thongs of rawhide, were held in place by wooden pegs. The
strips of rawhide attached to the clappers dropped low enough for me to
reach, and often tempted me to make the bells speak.

Mission padres no longer dwelt in the buildings, but shepherds from
distant folds came monthly to administer to the needs of this
consecrated flock. Then the many bells would call the faithful to mass,
and to vespers, or chime for the wedding of favored sons and daughters.
Part of them would jingle merrily for notable christenings; but one
only would toll when death whitened the lips of some distinguished
victim; and again, while the blessed body was being borne to its last
resting-place.

During one of my first trips to town, Jakie and I were standing by
grandpa's shop on the east side of the plaza, when suddenly those bells
rang out clear and sweet, and we saw the believing glide out of their
homes in every direction and wend their way to the church. The
high-born ladies had put aside their jewels, their gorgeous silks and
satins, and donned the simpler garb prescribed for the season of fasts
and prayer. Those to the manor born wore the picturesque rebosa of
fine lace or gauzy silk, draped over the head and about the shoulders;
while those of humbler station made the shawl serve in place of the
rebosa. The Indian servants, who with mats and kneeling cushions
followed their mistresses, wore white chemises, bright-colored
petticoats, and handkerchiefs folded three-cornerwise over the head and
knotted under the chin. The costumes of the young girls were modelled
after those of their mothers; and the little ladies appeared as demure
and walked as stately as their elders. The gentlemen also were garbed
in plainer costumes than their wont, and, for custom's sake, rode on
horseback even the short distances which little children walked.

The town seemed deserted, and the church filled, as we started
homeward, I skipping ahead until we reached a shop window where I
waited for Jakie and asked him if he knew what those pretty little
things were that I saw on a shelf, in big short-necked glass jars. Some
were round and had little "stickers" all over them, and others looked
like birds' eggs, pink, yellow, white, and violet.

He told me the round ones were sugar plums, and the egg-shaped had each
an almond nut under its bright crust; that they were candies that had
come from France in the ships that had brought the Spanish people their
fine clothes; and that they were only for the rich, and would make poor
little girls' teeth ache, if they should eat them.

Yet, after I confided to him how mother had given me a lump of loaf
sugar each night as long as it lasted, and how sorry we both felt when
there was no more, he led me into the shop and let me choose two of
each kind and color from the jars. We walked faster as I carried them
home. Jakie and grandma would not take any, but she gave Georgia and me
each a sugar plum and an egg, and saved the rest for other days when we
should be good children.

CHAPTER XXII

GOLD DISCOVERED—"CALIFORNIA IS OURS"—NURSING THE SICK THE U.S.
MILITARY POST—BURIAL OF AN OFFICER.

In the year 1848, while the settlers and their families were
contentedly at work developing the resources of the country, the
astounding cry, "Gold discovered!" came through the valley like a
blight, stopping every industry in its wake.

Excited men, women, and children rushed to town in quest of
information. It was furnished by Alcalde Boggs and General Vallejo, who
had been called away privately two weeks earlier, and had just returned
in a state of great enthusiasm, declaring that gold, "in dust, grains,
and chunks had been discovered at Coloma, not more than a day's journey
from Sutter's Fort."

"How soon can we get there?" became the all-absorbing problem of eager
listeners. The only hotel-keeper in the town sold his kettles and pans,
closed his house, and departed. Shopkeepers packed most of their
supplies for immediate shipment, and raised the price of those left for
home trade. Men and half-grown boys hardly took time to collect a
meagre outfit before they were off with shovel and pan and "something
big to hold the gold." A few families packed their effects into
emigrant wagons and deserted house and lands for the luring gold
fields.

Crowds from San Francisco came hurrying through, some stopping barely
long enough to repeat the maddening tales that had started them off to
the diggings with pick and shovel. Each new rumor increased the exodus
of gold-seekers; and by the end of the first week in August, when the
messenger arrived with the long-hoped-for report of the ratification of
the treaty of peace, and General Mason's proclamation officially
announcing it, there were not enough men left in the valley, outside of
the barracks, to give a decent round of cheers for the blessing of
peace.

Grandpa brought the news home, "California is ours. There will be no
more war, no more trouble, and no more need of soldiers."

Yet the women felt that their battles and trials had just begun, since
they had suddenly become the sole home-keepers, with limited ways and
means to provide for the children and care for the stock and farms.
Discouragement would have rendered the burdens of many too heavy to
carry, had not "work together," and "help your neighbor," become the
watchwords of the day. No one was allowed to suffer through lack of
practical sympathy. From house to house, by turns, went the strong to
help the weak to bridge their troubles. They went, not with cheering
words only, but with something in store for the empty cupboards and
with ready hands to help to milk, wash, cook, or sew.

Grandma was in such demand that she had little time to rest; for there
was not a doctor nor a "medicine shop" in the valley, and her parcels
of herbs and knowledge of their uses had to serve for both. Nights, she
set her shoes handy, so that she could dress quickly when summoned to
the sick; and dawn of day often marked her home-coming.

Georgia and I were led into her work early, for we were sent with
broths and appetizers to the sick on clearings within walking
distances; and she would bid us stay a while at different houses where
we could be helpful, but to be sure and bring careful reports from each
home we entered. Under such training, we learned much about diseases
and the care of the suffering. Anon, we would find in the plain wooden
cradle, a dainty bundle of sweetness, all done up in white, which its
happy owner declared grandma had brought her, and we felt quite repaid
for our tiresome walk if permitted to hold it a wee while and learn its
name.

MISSION SAN FRANCISCO SOLANO, LAST OF THE HISTORIC MISSIONS OF CALIFORNIA

RUINS OF THE MISSION AT SONOMA

We were sent together on these missions, in order that we might help
each other to remember all that was told us; yet grandma had us take
turns, and the one whom she commissioned to make the inquiries was
expected to bring the fuller answers. Sometimes, we played on the way
and made mistakes. Then she would mete out to us that hardest of
punishments, namely, that we were not to speak with each other until
she should forgive our offence. Forgiveness usually came before time
to drive up the cows, for she knew that we were nimbler-footed when she
started us off in happy mood.

Each cow wore a bell of different tone and knew her own name; yet it
was not an easy task, even in pleasant weather, to collect the various
strings and get them home on time. They mixed, and fed with neighbors'
cattle on the range, and hid themselves behind clumps of trees and
other convenient obstructions. Often grandma would get her string in by
the main trail and have them milked before we could bring up the
laggards that provokingly dawdled along, nibbling stray bunches of
grass. When late on the road, we saw coyotes sneaking out for their
evening meal and heard the far-away cry of the panther. But we were not
much afraid when it was light enough, so that imagination could not
picture them creeping stealthily behind us.

Our gallant Company C, officered by Captain Bartlett and Lieutenants
Stoneman and Stone, was ordered to another post early in August; and
its departure caused such universal regret that no one supposed Company
H, under Captain Frisbie, could fill its place. Nevertheless, that
handsome young officer soon found his way to the good-will of the
people, and when Captain Joe Hooker brought him out to visit grandma's
dairy, she, too, was greatly pleased by his soldierly bearing. After he
mentioned that he had heard of her interest in the company which had
been called away, and that he believed she would find Company H
equally deserving of her consideration, she readily extended to the new
men the homelike privileges which the others had enjoyed. Thus more
friends came among us.

Notable among mine was the old darkey cook at headquarters, from whom
Georgia and I tried to hide, the first time she waddled out to our
house. She searched us out, saying:

Her face was one great smile, and her voice was so coaxing that she had
little difficulty in gaining our favor, the more so, as upon leaving,
she called back, "I's surely g'wine ter make dat little pie and cake
I's promised yos, so yos mustn't forgit to come git it."

On one occasion, when I was sent to the post on an errand, she had no
pie or cake; but she brought out a primer and said thoughtfully, "I's
g'wine ter give yo dis A-B-C book, 'cos I want yo should grow up like
quality folks."

Its worn leaves showed that its owner had studied its first few pages
only; and when I replied, "Grandma says that I must not take everything
that is offered me," she chuckled and continued:

"Lawd, honey, yo needn't have no 'punctions 'bout takin' dis yer book,
'cos I couldn't learn to read nohow when I was a gal, and I's too ole
to now. Now, I wants yo to be nice; and yo can't, lessen yo can read
and talk like de Captain done tole me yo mudder done."

I was delighted with the book, and told her so, and hugged it all the
way home; for it had a beautiful picture near the back, showing a
little girl with a sprinkling pot, watering her garden of stocks,
sweet-williams, and hollyhocks. Her hair was in four long curls, and
she had trimming on her dress, apron, and long pantalets. I was also
impressed by the new words which I had heard Aunt Lucy use,
"'punctions," and "quality folks." I repeated them over and over to
myself, so that I should be able to tell them to Georgia.

Our last visit to Aunt Lucy must have been prearranged, for as she
admitted us, she said, "I's mighty glad yos done come so soon, 'cos I
been 'specting yos, and mus' take yos right in to de General."

I had never seen a general, and was shy about meeting one, until after
she assured me that only cowards and bad men feared him.

We walked down the corridor and entered a large room, where an elderly
gentleman in uniform sat writing at a table. Aunt Lucy stopped beside
him, and still holding each by the hand, bowed low, saying,
"General Smith,
I's brung der two little Donner gals in to see yo, sah"; then
she slipped out.

He was as courteous to us as though we were grown ladies, shook hands,
asked how we felt, begged us to be seated, and then stepped to a door
and called, "Susan! Susan!" I liked the name. A sweet voice answered,
"Coming!"

Presently, a pretty dark-eyed Southern lady appeared, who called us
"honeys," and "dear little girls." She sat between us, joining with her
husband in earnest inquiries about our stay in the mountains and our
home with grandma. Georgia did most of the talking. I was satisfied
just to look at them and hear them speak. At the close of our visit,
with a knowing look, she took us to see what Aunt Lucy had baked.

The General and she had recently come to pay a last visit to a sick
officer, who had been sent from San Francisco with the hope that our
milder climate would prolong his life. They themselves stayed only a
short time, and their friend never left our valley. The day he died,
the flag swung lower on the staff. Soldiers dug his grave on the
hillside north of town, and word came from army headquarters that he
would be buried on the morrow at midday, with military honors. Georgia
and I wanted to know what military honors were, and as it came time for
the funeral, we gathered with others on the plaza, where the procession
formed. We were deeply impressed.

The emigrants uncovered and bowed their heads reverently, but the
soldiers in line, with guns reversed, stood erect and motionless as
figures in stone, while the bier of the dead was being carried through
open ranks to the waiting caisson. The coffin was covered with a flag,
and upon it lay his chapeau, gauntlets, sash, and sword. His boots,
with their toes reversed, hung over the saddle of a riderless horse,
led behind the caisson. The solemn tones of fife and muffled drum led
the way through the town, past the old Mission bells and up the
hillside. Only soldiers stood close around the grave and heard what was
read by the officer who stood at its head, with an open book in one
hand and a drawn sword in the other. Three times the file of soldiers
fired a volley over the grave, then the muffled drum sounded its
farewell taps, and the officers, with their men and the funeral
caisson, returned to their quarters in silent order.

CHAPTER XXIII

Reaping and threshing were interesting events to us that summer.
Mission Indians, scantily clothed, came and cut the grain with long
knives and sickles, bound it in small sheaves, and stacked it in the
back yard opposite grandma's lookout window, then encircled it with a
rustic fence, leaving a wide bare space between the stack and the
fence, which they swept clean with green branches from live oak trees.

After many days, Mexican drivers brought a band of wild mares to help
with the work. A thick layer of unthreshed grain was pitched on to the
bare space surrounding the stack and the mares were driven around and
around upon it. From time to time, fresh material was supplied to meet
the needs of the threshers. And, at given signals from the men on the
stack, the mares were turned out for a short rest, also in order to
allow the Indians a chance to throw out the waste straw and to heap the
loose grain on the winnowing ground. So they did again and again,
until the last sheaf had been trodden under foot.

When the threshing was finished, the Indians rested; then prepared
their fires, and feasted on the head, feet, and offal of a bullock
which grandpa had slaughtered.

Like buzzards came the squaws and papooses to take what was left of the
food, and to claim a share from the pile of worn-out clothes which
grandma brought out for distribution. Amid shouts of pleasure,
gesticulations, and all manner of begging, the distribution began, and
when it ended, our front yard looked as though it were stocked with
prize scarecrows.

One big fellow was resplendent in a battered silk hat and a tattered
army coat; another was well dressed in a pair of cast-off boots and one
of grandma's ragged aprons. Georgia and I tried to help to sort the
things as they should be worn, but our efforts were in vain. Wrong
hands would reach around and get the articles, and both sexes
interchanged suits with apparent satisfaction. Grandma got quite out of
patience with one great fellow who was trying to put on a petticoat
that his squaw needed, and rushed up to him, jerked it off, gave him a
vigorous push, and had the garment on his squaw, before he could do
more than grunt. In the end they went away caring more for the clothes
that had been given them than for the money they had earned.

Before the summer waned, death claimed one of our own brave women, and
immigrants from far and near gathered to do her honor. I do not
recollect her name, but know that she was tall and fair, and that
grandma, who had watched with her through her last hours, told Georgia
and me that when we saw the procession leave the house, we might creep
through our back fence and reach the grave before those who should walk
around by the road. We were glad to go, for we had watched the growth
of the fresh ridge under a large oak tree, not far from our house, and
had heard a friend say that it would be "a heavenly resting place for
the freed sufferer."

Her family and nearest neighbors left the house afoot, behind the wagon
which carried the plain redwood coffin. At the cross-road several fell
in line, and at the grave was quite a gathering. A number came in their
ox wagons, others on horseback; among them, a father afoot, leading a
horse upon whose back sat his wife with an infant in arms and a child
behind clinging to her waist; and several old nags, freighted with
children, were led by one parent, while the other walked alongside to
see that none should lose their balance and fall off.

No minister of the Gospel was within call, so, after the coffin was
placed upon the bars above the open grave, and the lid removed, a
friend who had crossed the plains with the dead, offered a prayer, and
all the listeners said, "Amen."

I might not have remembered all these things, if Georgia and I had not
watched over that grave, when all others seemed to have forgotten it.
As we brought brush to cover it, in order to keep the cattle from
dusting themselves in the loose earth, we talked matters over, and felt
as though that mother's grave had been bequeathed to us. Grandma had
instructed us that the graveyard is "God's acre," and that it is a sin
to live near and not tend it. Still, no matter how often we chased the
cattle away, they would return. We could not make them understand that
their old resting-place had become sacred ground.

About the middle of October, 1848, the last of the volunteers were
mustered out of service, and shortly thereafter the excess of army
stores were condemned and sold. Ex-soldiers had preference over
settlers, and could buy the goods at Government rates, plus a small
cost of transportation to the Pacific coast. Grandma profited by the
good-will of those whom she had befriended. They stocked her store-room
with salt pork, flour, rice, coffee, sugar, ship-bread, dried fruit,
and camp condiments at a nominal figure above what they themselves paid
for them.

This was fortunate, for the hotel was still closed, and the homeless
and wayfaring appealing to grandma, easily persuaded her to make room
for them at her table. The greater the number, the harder she worked,
and the more she expected of us. Although we rose at dawn, and rolled
our sleeves high as she rolled hers, and like her, turned up our dress
skirts and pinned them behind under our long belt aprons, we could not
keep pace with her work.

Nevertheless, we were pleasing reminders of little girls whom she had
known in her native village, and she was proud of us, and had two
little white dresses fashioned to be worn on very special occasions.
After they were finished, we also were proud, and made many trips into
the room to see how beautiful they looked hanging against the wall
under the curtain.

Marvellous accounts of the extent and richness of the gold-diggings
were now brought to town by traffickers in provisions for mining-camps.
This good news inspired our home-keepers with renewed courage. They
worked faster while planning the comfort they should enjoy after the
return of the absent.

The first to come were the unfortunate, who sought to shake off
rheumatism, lung trouble, or the stubborn low-grade fever brought on by
working in the water, sleeping on damp ground, eating poorly cooked
food, or wearing clothing insufficient to guard against the morning and
evening chill. Few had much to show for their toil and privation; yet,
not disheartened, even in delirium, they clamored to hasten back for
the precious treasure which seemed ever beckoning them onward.

When wind and weather drove them home, the robust came with bags of
gold rolled in their snug packs. They called each other "lucky dogs,"
yet looked like grimy beggars, with faces so bewhiskered, and clothing
so ragged, or so wonderfully patched, that little children cried when
they drew near, and wives threw up their hands, exclaiming, "For the
land's sake! can it be?" Yet each home-comer found glad welcome, and
messengers were quick to spread the news, and friends gathered to
rejoice with the returned.

Now each home-cooked dish was a feast for the camp-fed to contrast with
their fare at Coloma, Wood's Camp,[16] and sundry other places, where
flour, rice, ship-bread, and coffee were three dollars a pound; salt
pork and white beans, two dollars a pound; jerked beef, eight dollars a
pound; saleratus, sixteen dollars an ounce; and salt, sugar, and
raisins were put on the scales to balance their weight in gold dust;
where liquor was fifty cents a tablespoonful, and candles five dollars
each. It was not the prices at which they complained, but at the dearth
of these staples, which had forced them home to wait until spring
should again open the road to supply-trains.

The homeless, who in the evenings found comfort and cheer around
grandma's table, would take out their treasure bags and boxes and pour
their dust and grains of gold in separate piles, to show the quality
and quantity, then pass the nuggets around that all might see what
strange figures nature had moulded in secret up among the rocks and
ravines of the Sierras.

One Roman Catholic claimed as his choicest prize a perfectly shaped
cross of free gold, which he had cradled from the sands in the bed of a
creek. Another had an image of the Virgin and Child. A slight stretch
of the imagination turned many of the beautifully fretted pieces into
miniature birds and other admirable designs for sweetheart brooches.
The exhibition over, each would scrape his hoard back into its
receptacle, blow the remaining yellow particles on to the floor so that
the table should not show stain, and then settle himself to take his
part in relating amusing and thrilling incidents of life in the mining
camps. Not a window was closed, nor a door locked, nor a wink of sleep
lost in those days, guarding bags of gold. "Hands off" was the miners'
law, and all knew that death awaited him who should venture to break
it.

Heavy purses made willing spenders, and generous impulses were
untrammelled. Nothing could be more gratifying or touching than the
respect shown by those homeless men to the pioneer women and children.
They would walk long distances and suffer delays and inconveniences for
the privilege of passing a few hours under home influences, and were
ever ready to contribute toward pleasures in which all might
participate.

There were so few young girls in the community, and their presence was
so greatly desired, that in the early winter, Georgia and I attended as
welcome guests some of the social gatherings which began at early
candle-light, and we wore the little white dresses that were so
precious in our eyes.

GOLD ROCKER, WASHING PAN AND GOLD BORER

SCENE DURING THE RUSH TO THE GOLD MINES FROM SAN FRANCISCO IN 1848

Before the season was half over, heavy rain was followed by such bitter
cold that all the ground and still waters were frozen stiff. Although
we were well muffled, and grandma warmed us up with a drink of hot
water and sweetened cream before starting us out after the cows, the
frost nipped at our feet until the old scars became so angry and
painful that we could scarcely hobble about the house. Many remedies
were tried, to no purpose, the most severe being the early foot bath
with floats of ice in the water. It chilled us through and through, and
also made grandma keep us from the fire, lest the heat should undo the
benefit expected from the cold. So, while we sat with shivering forms
and chattering teeth looking across the room at the blazing logs under
the breakfast pots and kettles, our string of cows was coming home in
care of a new driver.

We were glad to be together, even in misery, and all things considered,
were perhaps as useful in our crippled condition as before, for there
was enough to keep our hands busy while our feet rested. Grandma
thought she made our work lighter by bringing it to us, yet she came
too often for it to seem easy to us.

First, the six brass candlesticks, with hoods, snuffers, and trays had
to be brightened; and next, there were the small brass kettles in which
she boiled the milk for coffee, to be polished inside and out. However,
we did not dread the kettles much, unless burned, for there was always
a spoon in the bottom to help to gather the scrapings, of which we were
very fond.

But when she would come with a large pan of dried beans or peas to be
picked over quickly, so that she could get them soaked for early
cooking, we would measure its contents with critical eyes to make sure
that it was not more than we had had the previous day. By the time we
would get to the bottom of the pan, she would be ready to put before
us a discouraging pile of iron knives, forks, and pewter spoons to
scour with wood ashes. How we did hate those old black knives and
forks! She said her sight was poor—but she could always see when we
slighted any.

The redeeming work of the day was sorting the dried fruit for sauce or
pies. We could take little nibbles as we handled it, and knew that we
should get an extra taste when it was ready for use. And after she had
put the upper crust on the pies, she would generally permit us to make
the fancy print around the edges with a fork, and then prick a figure
in the centre to let the steam escape while baking.

Sometimes she received a dollar apiece for these pies; and she had so
many customers for them and for such loaves of bread as she could
spare, that she often declared the farm was as good as a gold mine.

We were supposed not to play with dolls, consequently we durst not ask
any one to step around and see how our little house in the back yard
was weathering the storms, nor how the beloved nine in it were getting
along. Though only bottles of different sizes, to us they were dear
children, named after great personages whom the soldiers had taught us
to honor.

The most distinguished had cork stoppers for heads, with faces marked
on the sides, the rest, only wads of paper or cloth fastened on the
ends of sticks that reached down into the bodies. A strip of cloth tied
around each neck, below the bulge, served as make-believe arms,
suitable for all ordinary purposes, and, with a little assistance,
capable of saluting an officer or waving to a comrade.

We worried because they were clothed in fragments of cloth and paper
too thin for the season; and the very first chance we got, we slipped
out and found our darlings in a pitiable plight. Generals Washington
and Jackson, and little Van Buren were mired at the foot of a land
slide from the overhanging bank. Taylor, Webster, Clay, and Benton had
been knocked down and buried almost out of sight. Martha Washington's
white shawl and the chicken plumes in her hat were ruined; and Dandy
Jim from North Carolina lay at her feet with a broken neck!

Such a shock! Not until we realized that everything could be restored
was our grief assuaged—that is, everything but Dandy Jim. He was a
serious loss, for he was our only black bottle and had always been kept
to wait on Martha Washington.

We worked fast, and had accomplished so much before being called into
the house that we might have put everything in order next day, had
Georgia not waked up toward morning with a severe cold, and had grandma
not found out how she caught it. The outcome was that our treasures
were taken to the store-room to become medicine and vinegar bottles,
and we mourned like birds robbed of their young.

New duties were opened to me as soon as I could wear my shoes, and by
the time Georgia was out again, I was a busy little dairymaid, and
quite at home in the corrals. I had been decorated with the regulation
salt bag, which hung close to my left side, like a fisherman's basket.
I owned a quart cup and could milk with either hand, also knew how to
administer the pinch of salt which each cow expected. After a little
practice I became able to do all the "stripping." In some cases it
amounted to not more than half a pint from each animal. However, much
or little, the strippings were of importance, and were kept separate,
because grandma considered them "good as cream in the cheese kettle."

When I could sit on the one-legged stool, which Jakie had made me, hold
a pail between my knees and milk one or more cows, without help, they
both praised my cleverness—a cleverness which fixed more outside
responsibilities upon me, and kept me from Georgia a longer while each
day. My work was hard, still I remained noticeably taller and stronger
than she, who was assigned to lighter household duties. I felt that I
had no reason to complain of my tasks, because everybody about me was
busy, and the work had to be done.

If I was more helpful than my little sister, I was also a source of
greater trouble, for I wore out my clothes faster, and they were
difficult to replace, especially shoes.

There was but one shoemaker in the town, and he was kept so busy that
he took a generous measure of children's feet and then allowed a size
or more, to guard against the shoes being too small by the time he
should get them finished.

When my little stogies began to leak, he shook his head thoughtfully,
and declared that he had so many orders for men's boots that he could
not possibly work for women or children until those orders were filled.
Consequently, grandma kept her eye on my shoes, and as they got worse
and worse, she became sorely perplexed. She would not let me go
barefooted, because she was afraid of "snags" and ensuing lockjaw; she
could not loan me her own, because she was saving them for special
occasions, and wearing instead the heavy sabots she had brought from
her native land. She tried the effect of continually reminding me to
pick my way and save my shoes, which made life miserable for us both.
Finally she upbraided me harshly for a playful run across the yard with
Courage, and I lost my temper, and grumbled.

"I would rather go barefooted and get snags in my feet than have so
much bother about old shoes that are worn out and no good anyway!"

I was still crying when Hendrik, a roly-poly Hollander, came along and
asked the cause of my distress. Grandma told him that I was out of
humor, because she was trying to keep shoes on my feet, while I was
determined to run them off. He laughed, bade me cheer up, sang the
rollicking sailor song with which he used to drive away storms at sea,
then showed me a hole in the heel of the dogskin boots he wore, and
told me that, out of their tops, he would make me a beautiful pair of
shoes.

No clouds darkened my sky the morning that Hendrik came, wearing a pair
of new cowhide boots then squeaked as though singing crickets were
between the heavy soles; for he had his workbox and the dogskins under
his arm, and we took seats under the oak tree, where he laid out his
tools and went to work without more ado.

He had brought a piece of tanned cowhide for the soles of my shoes, an
awl, a sailor's thimble, needles, coarse thread, a ball of wax, and a
sharp knife. The hair on the inside of the boot legs was thick and
smooth, and the colors showed that one of the skins had been taken from
the body of a black and white dog, and the other from that of a tawny
brindle. As Hendrik modelled and sewed, he told me a wondrous tale of
the great North Polar Sea, where he had gone in a whaling vessel, and
had stayed all winter among mountains of ice and snow. There his boots
had worn out. So he had bought these skins from queer little people
there, who live in snow huts, and instead of horses or oxen, use dogs
to draw their sleds.

I liked the black and white skin better than the brindle, so he cut
that for the right foot, and told me always to make it start first. And
when I put the shoes on they felt so soft and warm that I knew I could
never forget Hendrik's generosity and kindness.

The longer I wore them the more I became attached to them, and the
better I understood the story he had told me; for in my musings they
were not shoes, but "Spot" and "Brindle," live Eskimo dogs, that had
drawn families of queer little people in sleds over the frozen sea, and
had always been hungry and ready to fight over their scanty meals. At
times I imagined that they wanted to race and scamper about as happy
dogs do, and I would run myself out of breath to keep them going, and
always stop with Spot in the lead.

When I needed shoestrings, I was sent to the shoemaker, who only
glanced up and replied, "Come to-morrow, and I'll have a piece of
leather big enough."

The next day, he made the same answer, "Come to-morrow," and kept
pegging away as fast as he could on a boot sole. The third time I
appeared before him, he looked up with the ejaculation, "Well, I'll be
damned, if she ain't here again!"

I was well aware that he should not have used that evil word, yet was
not alarmed, for I had heard grandpa and others use worse, and mean no
harm, nor yet intend to be cross. So I stood quietly, and in a trice he
was up, had rushed across the shop, brought back two round pieces of
leather not larger than cookies, and before I knew what he was about,
had turned them into good straight shoestrings. He waxed them, and
handed them to me with the remark, "Tell your grandma that since you
had to wait so long, I charge her only twenty-five cents for them."

CHAPTER XXIV

MEXICAN METHODS OF CULTIVATION—FIRST STEAMSHIP THROUGH THE GOLDEN
GATE—"THE ARGONAUTS" OR "BOYS OF '49"—A LETTER FROM THE STATES—JOHN
BAPTISTE—JAKIE LEAVES US—THE FIRST AMERICAN SCHOOL IN SONOMA.

By the first of March, 1849, carpenters had the frame of grandma's fine
new two-story house enclosed, and the floors partly laid. Neighbors
were hurrying to get their fields ploughed and planted, those without
farming implements following the Mexican's crude method of ploughing
the ground with wooden prongs and harrowing in the seed by dragging
heavy brush over it.

They gladly turned to any tool that would complete the work by the time
the roads to the mountains should be passable, and the diggings clear
of snow. Their expectations might have been realized sooner, if a bluff
old launch captain, with an eye to business for himself and San
Francisco, had not appeared on the scene, shouting, "Ahoy" to
everybody.

"I say, a steamship anchored in the Bay of San Francisco two days ago.
She's the California. Steamed out of New York Harbor with
merchandise. Stopped at Panama; there took aboard three hundred and
fifty waiting passengers that had cut across country—a mixture of men
from all parts of the United States, who have come to carry off the
gold diggings, root and branch! Others are coming in shiploads as fast
as they can. Now mark my words, and mark them well: provisions is going
to run mighty short, and if this valley wants any, it had better send
for them pretty damn quick!"

By return boat, farmers, shopkeepers, and carpenters hastened to San
Francisco. All were eager for supplies from the first steamship that
had entered the Golden Gate—the first, it may be added, that most of
them, even those of a sea-going past, had ever seen.

During the absence of husbands, we little girls were loaned separately
nights to timid wives who had no children to keep them company. Georgia
went earlier and stayed later than I, because grandma could not spare
me in the evenings until after the cows were turned out, and she needed
me in the mornings before sunrise. Those who borrowed us made our stays
so pleasant that we felt at home in many different houses.

Once, however, I encountered danger on my early homeward trip.

I had turned the bend in the road, could see the smoke curling out of
grandma's chimney, and knew that every nearer house was closed. In
order to avoid attracting the attention of a suspicious-looking cow on
the road, I was running stealthily along a rail fence, when,
unexpectedly, I came upon a family of sleeping swine, and before I was
aware of danger from that direction was set upon and felled to the
ground by a vicious beast. Impelled, I know not how, but quick as
thought, I rolled over and over and over, and when I opened my eyes I
was on the other side of the fence, and an angry, noisy, bristling
creature was glaring at me through the rails.

Quivering like a leaf and for a time unable to rise, I lay upon the
green earth facing the morning sky. With strange sensations and
wonderment, I tried to think what might have happened, if I had not
rolled. What if that space between fence and ground had been too narrow
to let my body through; what if, on the other hand, it had been wide
enough for that enraged brute to follow?

Too frightened to cry, and still trembling, I made my way to the end of
the field and climbed back over the fence near home. Grandma was
greatly startled by my blanched face, and the rumpled and soiled
condition of my clothes. After I related my frightful experience, she
also felt that had it not been for that fence, I should have been torn
to pieces. She explained, however, that I probably would not have been
attacked had I not startled the old mother so suddenly that she
believed her young in danger.

When our menfolk returned from San Francisco, they were accompanied by
many excited treasure-seekers, anxious to secure pack animals to carry
their effects to the mines. They were made welcome, and in turn
furnished us news of the outer world, and distributed worn copies of
American and foreign newspapers, which our hungry-minded pioneers read
and re-read so long as the lines held together.

Those light-hearted newcomers, who danced and gayly sang,

O Susannah, don't you cry for me!
I'm bound to Californy with a tin pan on my knee,

were the first we saw of that vast throng of gold-seekers, who flocked to
our shores within a twelvemonth, and who have since become idealized in
song and story as the "Argonauts," "the Boys of '49."

They were unlike either our pioneer or our soldier friends in style of
dress and manner. Nor had they come to build homes or develop the
country. They wanted gold to carry back to other lands. Some had
expected to find it near the Bay of San Francisco; some, to scoop it up
out of the river beds that crossed the valleys; and others, to shovel
it from ravines and mountain-sides. When told of the difficulties
before them, their impatience grew to be off, that they might prove to
Western plodders what could be done by Eastern pluck and muscle.

Such packing as those men did! Mother's Bible, and wife and baby's
daguerreotype not infrequently started to the mines in the coffee pot,
or in the miner's boots, hanging across the mule's pack. The
sweetheart's lock of hair, affectionately concealed beneath the hat
lining of its faithful wearer, caught the scent of the old clay pipe
stuck in the hat-band.

With the opening season all available Indians of both sexes were hired
as gold-diggers, and trudged along behind their employers, and our
town was again reduced to a settlement of white women and children. But
what a difference in the feeling of our people! We now heard regularly
from the Bay City, and entertained transients from nearly every part of
the globe; and these would loan us books and newspapers, and frequently
store unnecessary possessions with us until they should return from the
mines.

San Francisco had a regular post office. One day its postmaster
forwarded a letter, addressed to ex-Governor Boggs, which the latter
brought out and read to grandma. She did not, as usual, put her head
out of the window and call us, but came from the house wiping her eyes,
and asked if we wanted to be put in a big ship and sent away from her
and grandma and Jakie.

Greatly alarmed, we exclaimed, "No, no, grandma, no!"

Taking us by the hand, she led us into the house, seated herself and
drew one of us to each side, then requested the Governor to read the
letter again. We two did not understand all it said, but enough to know
that it had been written by our own dear aunt, Elizabeth Poor, who
wanted Governor Boggs to find her sister's three little orphaned girls
and send them back to her by ship to Massachusetts. It contained the
necessary directions for carrying out her wish.

POST OFFICE, CORNER OF CLAY AND PIKE STREETS, SAN FRANCISCO, 1849

OLD CITY HOTEL, 1846, CORNER OF KEARNEY AND CLAY STREETS, THE FIRST HOTEL IN SAN FRANCISCO

Grandma assured the Governor that we did not want to leave her, nor
would she give us up. She said she and her husband and Jakie had
befriended us when we were poor and useless, and that we were now
beginning to be helpful. Moreover, that they had prospered greatly
since we had come into their home, and that their luck might change if
they should part from us. She further stated that she already had
riches in her own right, which we should inherit at her death.

The Governor spoke of schools and divers matters pertaining to our
welfare, then promised to explain by letter to Aunt Elizabeth how
fortunately we were situated.

This event created quite a flutter of excitement among friends. Grandpa
and Jakie felt just as grandma did about keeping us. Georgia and I were
assured that in not being allowed to go across the water, we had
escaped great suffering, and, perhaps, drowning by shipwreck. Still, we
did wish that it were possible for us to see Aunt Elizabeth, whom
mother had taught us to love, and who now wanted us to come to her.

I told Georgia that I would learn to write as fast as I could, and send
her a letter, so she would know all about us.

We now imagined that we were quite large girls, for grandma usually
said before going away, "Children, you know what there is to do and I
leave everything in your care." We did not realize that this was her
little scheme, in part, to keep us out of mischief; but we knew that
upon her return she would see, and call attention to what was left
undone.

Once, when we were at home alone and talking about "endless work and
aching bones," as we had heard grown-up folks complain of theirs, we
were interrupted by a bareback rider who did not "tie up" under the
live oak, but came to the shade of the white oak in front of us at the
kitchen door. After a cheery "Howdy do" and a hand shake, he exclaimed,

"I heard at Napa that you lived here, and my pony has made a hard run
to give me this sight of you."

We were surprised and delighted, for the speaker was
John Baptiste who
had wintered with us in the Sierras. We asked him to dismount, take a
seat under the tree, and let us bring him a glass of milk. He declined
graciously, then with a pleased expression, drew a small brown-paper
parcel from his trousers pocket and handed it to us, leaned forward,
clasped his arms about his pony, rested his head on its neck, and
smilingly watched Georgia unwrap it, and two beautiful bunches of
raisins come to view,—one for each. He would not touch a single berry,
nor let us save any. He asked us to eat them then and there so that he
could witness our enjoyment of the luxury he had provided for this, our
first meeting in the settlement.

Never had we seen raisins so large, translucent, and delicious. They
seemed far too choice for us to have, and John was so poorly dressed
and pinched in features that we hesitated about eating them. But he
would have his way, and in simple language told us that he wanted them
to soften the recollection of the hungry time when he came into camp
empty-handed and discouraged. Also to fulfil his assurance to our
mother that he would try to keep us in sight, and give us of the best
that he could procure. His last injunctions were, "Be good little
girls; always remember your mother and father; and don't forget John
Baptiste."

He was gone when grandma got back; and she was very serious when told
what had occurred in her absence. She rarely spoke to us of our mother,
and feared it might lessen our affection for herself, if others kept
the memory of the dead fresh in our minds.

There were many other happenings before the year closed, that caused me
to think a great deal. Grandpa spent less time at the shop; he bought
himself a fleet-footed horse which he named Antelope, and came home
oftener to talk to grandma about money they had loaned Major Prudon to
send to China for merchandise, also about a bar-room which he was
fitting up near the butcher-shop, for a partner. Next, he bought
faithful Charlie, a large bay horse, with friendly eyes, and long black
mane and tail; also a small blue farm wagon in which Georgia and I were
to drive about the fields, when sent to gather loose bark and dry
branches for baking fires.

We were out for that purpose the day that we saw grandpa ride away to
the mines, but we missed seeing Jakie steal off, with his bunch of
cows. He felt too badly to say good-bye to us.

I was almost heart-broken when I learned that he was not coming back.
He had been my comforter in most of my troubles, had taught me to ride
and drive the horse, shown me the wood duck's nest in the hollow of
our white oak tree, and the orioles' pretty home swinging from a twig
in the live oak, also where the big white-faced owls lived. He had
helped me to gather wild flowers, made me whistles from branches cut
from the pussy willows, and had yodeled for me as joyfully as for loved
ones in his Alpine home. Everything that he had said and done meant a
great deal more to me now, and kept him in mind, as I went about alone,
or with grandma, doing the things that had been his to do. She now
moulded her cheeses in smaller forms, and we had fewer cows to milk.

When the season for collecting and drying herbs came, Georgia and I had
opportunity to be together considerably. It was after we had picked the
first drying of sage and were pricking our fingers on the saffron pods,
that grandma, in passing, with her apron full of Castilian rose petals,
stopped and announced that if we would promise to work well, and gather
the sage leaves and saffron tufts as often as necessary, she would let
us go to a "real school" which was about to open in town.

Oh, dear! to go to school, to have books and slate and pencil! What
more could be wished? Yes, we would get up earlier, work faster before
time to go, and hurry home after lessons were over. And I would carry
the book Aunt Lucy had given me. It was all arranged, and grandma went
to town to buy slates, pencils, speller, and a stick of wine-colored
ribbon to tie up our hair.

When the anticipated hour came, there were great preparations that we
might be neat and clean and ready on time. Our hair was parted in four
equal divisions; the front braids, tied with ribbon, formed a U at the
back of the neck; and we wore new calico dresses and sun-bonnets, and
carried lunch for two in a curious little basket, which grandma must
have brought with her from Switzerland. Joyfully we started forth to
the first American school
opened in Sonoma.

Alas! it was not what our anticipations had pictured. The schoolroom
was a dreary adobe, containing two rows of benches so high that, when
seated, we could barely touch the earthen floor with our toes. The
schoolmaster told us that we must hold our slates on our laps, and our
open books in the right hand, and not look at the pictures, but study
all the time, and not speak, even to each other, without permission.
His face was so severe, his eyes so keen, and his voice so sharp that I
was afraid of him.

He had a chair with a back to it, and a table to hold his books; yet he
spent most of his time walking about with a narrow strap of rawhide in
his hand, and was ever finding some one whose book drooped, or who was
whispering; and the stinging bite of that strap would call the erring
to order.

The Misses Boggs, Lewis, Smith, and Bone were pretty young ladies, and
brought their own chairs and a table to sit around; and when they
whispered, the master never saw them; and when they missed in lessons,
he didn't keep them in, nor make them stand on the floor.

I learned my lessons well enough, but grandma was terribly shocked
because I got strapped nearly every day. But then, I sat between
Georgia and the other little girls in our row, and had to deliver
messages from those on both sides of me, as well as to whisper a little
on my own account. Finally, grandma declared that if I got a whipping
next day, she would give me a second one after reaching home. So I
started in the morning with the intention of being the best girl in
school; but we had hardly settled in line for our first lesson, when
Georgia whispered behind her book, "Eliza, see! Mary Jane Johnson has
got my nice French card, with the double queens on it, and I can't get
it."

Forgotten were my good resolutions. I leaned out of line, and whispered
louder than I meant, "Mary Jane Johnson, that is my sister's card, and
you must give it back to her."

She saw the master watching, but I did not, until he called me to hold
out my hand. For once, I begged, "Please excuse me; I won't do it
again." But he wouldn't, and I felt greatly humiliated, because I knew
the large girls had heard me and were smiling.

After recess, a new boy arrived, little Willie McCracken, whom we had
seen on the plains, and known at Sutter's Fort, and he knew us as soon
as he reached his seat and looked around. In a short time, I nudged
Georgia, and asked her if I hadn't better roll him the little knot of
dried apples that grandma had put in the basket for my lunch. She said,
yes, if I wanted to. So I wiggled the basket from under the seat with
my foot, and soon thereafter, my bit of hospitality was on its way to
the friend I was glad to see again.

Instead of his getting it, however, the master stepped down and picked
it up, with the hand that didn't have the strap in it. So, instead of
being the best, I was the worst child in school, for not one had ever
before received two strappings in a forenoon.

It must have been our bad day, for Georgia felt her very first bite
from the strap that afternoon, and on the way home volunteered not to
tell on me, if grandma did not ask. Yet grandma did, the first thing.
And when Georgia reluctantly said, "Yes," grandma looked at me and
shook her head despairingly; but when I announced that I had already
had two strappings, and Georgia one, she burst out laughing, and said
she thought I had had enough for one day.

A few weeks later, the large boys drove the master out of school on
account of his cruelty to a little fellow who had played truant.

In that dingy schoolroom, Georgia and I later attended the first
Protestant Sunday school and church service held in Sonoma.

CHAPTER XXV

FEVER PATIENTS FROM THE MINES—UNMARKED GRAVES—THE TALES AND TAUNTS
THAT WOUNDED MY YOUNG HEART.

A short experience in the mines cured grandpa's "mining fever," but
increased his rheumatism. The accounts he brought of sufferings he had
witnessed in the camps prepared us for the approaching autumn's work,
when many of the happy fellows who had started to the gold-fields in
vigorous health and with great expectations returned haggard, sick, and
out of luck.

Then was noble work done by the pioneer women. No door was closed
against the needy. However small the house might be, its inmates had
some comfort to offer the stranger. Many came to grandma, saying they
had places to sleep but begging that she would give them food and
medicine until they should be able to proceed to San Francisco.

Weary mortals dragged their aching limbs to the benches under her white
oak tree, dropped upon them, with blankets still across their
shoulders, declaring they could not go another rod. Often, she turned
her face aside and murmured, "God help the poor wanderers"; but to them
she would say encouragingly, "You be not very sick, you will soon be
rested. There be straw in the stack that we will bring for your bed,
and me and the children will let you not go hungry."

Ere long, beds had to be made on the floor of the unfinished house.
More were needed, and they were spread under the great white oak.

On a block beside each fever patient stood a tin cup, which Georgia and
I were charged to keep full of cold water, and it was pitiful to see
the eyes of the sick watch the cooling stream we poured. Our patients
eagerly grasped the cup with unsteady hands, so that part of its
contents did not reach the parched lips. Often, we heard the fervid
prayer, "God bless the women of this land, and bless the children too!"

Soon we learned to detect signs of improvement, and were rejoiced when
the convalescents smiled and asked for more to eat. Grandma carried
most of the food to them and sent us later for the empty dishes.

Of the many who came to us that season, there was but one who never
proceeded on his way. He was a young German, fair of face, but terribly
wasted by disease. His gentle, boyish manner at once made him a
favorite, and we not only gave him our best care, but when a physician
drifted into town, grandma sent for him and followed his directions. I
remember well the day that John seemed almost convalescent, relished
his breakfast, wanted to talk a while, and before we left him, had us
bring him a basin of warm water and his beflowered carpet bag, from
which he took a change of clothing and his shaving outfit.

When we saw him later, his hair was smoothly combed; he looked neat and
felt encouraged, and was sure that he should soon be up and doing for
himself. At nightfall, grandma bade us wipe the dishes quickly as
possible, at which Georgia proposed a race to see whether she could
wash fast enough to keep us busy, and we got into a frolicsome mood,
which grandma put an end to with the sobering remark:

"Oh, be not so worldly-minded. John ist very bad to-night. I be in a
hurry to go back to him, and you must hold the candle."

We passed out into the clear cold starlight, with the burning candle
sheltered by a milk pan, and picked our way between the lumber to the
unfinished room where John lay. I was the last to enter, and saw
grandma hurriedly give the candle to Georgia, drop upon her knees
beside the bed, touch his forehead, lift his hand, and call him by
name. The damp of death was on his brow, the organs of speech had lost
their power. One long upward look, a slight quivering of the muscles of
the face, and we were alone with the dead. I was so awed that I could
scarcely move, but grandma wept over him, as she prepared his body for
burial.

The next afternoon, we three and grandpa and a few friends followed him
to his final resting-place. After he was gone, grandma remembered that
she did not know his name in full, the land of his birth, nor the
address of his people. Expecting his recovery, she had not troubled him
with questions, and the few trinkets in his carpet bag yielded no
identifying clue. So he lies in a nameless grave, like countless other
youth of that period.

We had patients of every type, those who were appreciative and
grateful, and those who rebelled against confinement, and swore at the
pain which kept sleep from their eyes, and hurled their things about
regardless of consequences. The most trying were the chronic grumblers,
who did not know what they wanted, nor what they ought to have, and
adopted the moody refrain:

But the happy times are over,
I've only grief and pain,
For I shall never, never see
Susannah dear again.

The entrance of Georgia and myself would occasionally turn their
thoughts into homeward channels, and make them reminiscent of their
little children and loved ones "back in the States." Then, again, our
coming would set them to talking about our early disaster and such
horrible recounts of happenings in the snow-bound camps that we would
rush away, and poor Georgia would have distressing crying spells over
what we had heard.

At first no tears dimmed my eyes, for I felt, with keen indignation,
that those wounding tales were false; but there came hours of suffering
for me later, when an unsympathetic soldier, nicknamed "Picayune
Butler," engaged me in conversation and set me to thinking.

He was a great big man with eyes piercing as a hawk's, and lips so thin
that they looked like red lines on his face, parting and snapping
together as he repeated the horrible things he had read in The
California Star. He insisted that the Donner Party was responsible for
its own misfortune; that parents killed their babies and ate their
bodies to keep themselves alive; cut off the heads of companions and
called them good soup bones; and were as thievish as sneaking Indians,
even stealing the strings from the snowshoes of those who had come to
their rescue. He maintained that
Keseberg had murdered my mother and
mutilated my dead father's body; and that he himself felt that the
miserable wretches brought from starvation were not worth the price it
had cost to save them.

Too young, too ignorant, and too distressed to disprove the accusations
or resent his individual view, I could only take refuge behind what I
had heard and seen in camp, and declare, "I know it is not true; they
were good people, and loved their babies, and were sorry for
everybody."

How could I believe his cruel words? While I had come from the
mountains remembering most clearly the sufferings from cold, hunger,
thirst, and pitiful surroundings, I had also brought from there a
child's mental picture of tenderest sympathies and bravest
self-denials, evinced by the snow-bound in my father's camp, and of
Mrs. Murphy's earnest effort to soothe and care for us three little
sisters after we had been deserted at the lake cabins by Cady and
Stone; also her motherly watchfulness over Jimmie Eddy, Georgia
Foster, and her own son Simon, and of Mr. Eddy's constant solicitude
for our safety on the journey over the mountains to Sutter's Fort.
Vain, however, my efforts to speak in behalf of either the dead or the
absent; every attempt was met by the ready assertion, "You can't prove
anything; you were not old enough to remember or understand what
happened."

Oh, how I longed to be grown, to have opportunities to talk with those
of the party who were considered old enough to remember facts, and
would answer the questions I wanted to ask; and how firmly I resolved
that when I grew to be a woman I would tell the story of my party so
clearly that no one could doubt its truth!

CHAPTER XXVI

Grandma had a fixed price for table board, but would not take pay for
medicines, nor for attendance on the sick; consequently, many of her
patients, after reaching San Francisco, sent thank offerings of
articles useful and pleasing to her. Thus, also, Sister Georgia and I
came into possession of pretty calico, Swiss, and delaine dresses, and
shoes that filled our hearts with pride, for they were of Morocco
leather, a red and a green pair for each. We had seen finely dressed
Spanish children wear such shoes, but never supposed that we should be
so favored.

After the first dresses were finished, there came a Sunday when I was
allowed to go to the Mission Church with Kitty Purcell, the baker's
little daughter, and I felt wonderfully fine in my pink calico frock,
flecked with a bird's-eye of white, a sun-bonnet to match, and green
shoes.

The brilliantly lighted altar, decked with flowers, the priests in
gorgeous vestments, the acolyte with the swinging censer, and the
intoned service in foreign tongue, were bewildering to me. My eyes
wandered from the clergy to the benches upon which sat the rich and
the great, then back to the poor, among whom I was kneeling. Each
humble worshipper had spread a bright-bordered handkerchief upon the
bare floor as a kneeling mat. I observed the striking effect, then
recollecting my shoes, put my hand back and drew up the hem of my
dress, that my two green beauties might be seen by the children behind
me. No seven-year-old child ever enjoyed finery more than I did those
little shoes.

Gifts which grandma considered quite unsuitable came one day in two
neat wooden boxes about thirty inches in length, and eight in width and
depth. They were addressed to us individually, but in grandma's care.
When she removed the cover and a layer of cotton batting from
Georgia's, a beautiful French lady-doll was revealed, exquisitely
dressed, with a spray of flowers in her hair, and another that looped
one side of her lovely pink skirt sufficiently high to display an
elaborately trimmed petticoat. She was so fine in lace and ribbons,
yes, even watch and chain, that grandma was loath to let us touch her,
and insisted she should be handled in the box.

My gift was a pretty young Swiss matron in holiday attire, really more
picturesque, and quite as costly as Georgia's, but lacking that
daintiness which made the lady-doll untouchable. I had her to hug and
look at only a few moments; then both boxes with their precious
contents were put away for safe keeping, and brought forth only on
state occasions, for the inspection of special visitors.

Grandma did not want any nonsense put into our heads. She wished us to
be practical, and often quoted maxims to the effect that, "As the twig
is bent, the tree's inclined"; "All work is ennobling if well done";
"Much book-learning for girls is not conducive to happiness or
success"; and "The highest aim of a girl should be honesty, chastity,
and industry."

Still, she was so pleased when I could write a little with ink and
quill, that she dictated several letters to Jakie, who was in the dairy
business near Stockton; and in an unguarded moment she agreed that I
should attend Miss Doty's school. Then she hesitated. She wished to
treat us exactly alike, yet could not spare both at the same time.
Finally, as a way out of the difficulty, she decided that we should
attend school alternate months, during the summer; and that my sister,
being the elder, should begin the course.

It seemed to me that Georgia's month at school would never end. My own
sped faster than I wished. Miss Doty helped me with my lessons during
part of the noon hour, and encouragingly said, "Be patient, keep
trying, and you will gain your reward."

While still her pupil, I wrote my long-planned letter to
Aunt Elizabeth.
Georgia helped to compose it, and when finished, we carried
it to our friend, the postmaster. He banteringly held it in his hand,
until we told its contents and begged that it go to Aunt Elizabeth as
fast as possible. He must have seen that it was incorrectly addressed,
yet he readily promised that if an answer should come addressed to
"Miss Georgia Ann Donner," or to "Miss Eliza Poor Donner," he would
carefully save it for us.

After many fruitless trips to the post-office, we were one day handed a
letter for grandma. It was not from our aunt, however, but from our
sister Elitha, and bore the sad news that her husband, while on the
range, had been thrown from his horse, and lived but a few moments
after she reached him. She also stated that her little daughter
Elisabeth and her sister Leanna were with her on the ranch, and that
she was anxious to learn how Georgia and I were getting on.

By advice of short-sighted friends, grandma sent a very formal reply to
the letter, and told us that she did not want Elitha to write again.
Moreover, that we, in gratitude for what she had done for us, should
take her name and call her "mother."

This endeavor to destroy personal identity and family connection, met
with pathetic opposition. Of our own accord, we had called her grandma.
But "mother"—that name was sacred to her who had taught our infant
lips to give it utterance! We would bestow it on no other.

Under no circumstance was there difficulty in finding some one ready to
advise or help to plan our duties. With the best of intentions? Yes,
but often, oh, how trying to us, poor little waifs of misfortune!

One, like a thorn in the flesh, was apportioned to me at the approach
of the Winter of 1849 and 1850. We needed more help in the dairy, but
could get no one except Mr. Marsh, who lived in bachelor quarters half
a mile south on the creek bank. He drove in the bunch of cows found in
the mornings grazing on their homeward way, but was too old to follow
after those on the range. Moreover, he did not know how to milk.
Grandma, therefore, was obliged to give up going after the cows
herself. She hesitated about sending us alone, for of late many
stragglers had been seen crossing the valley, and also Indians
loitering about. Furthermore, Georgia was again coughing badly.

At a loss what to do, she discussed the situation with a neighbor, who
after reflection asked,

"Why not dress Eliza in boy's clothes and put her on old Charlie?"

Grandma threw up her hands at the bare suggestion. It was scandalous,
improper! Why, she had even taught me to shun the boys of the village.
However, she felt differently later in the day when she called me to
her. But in vain was coaxing, in vain was scolding, I refused
positively to don boy's clothing.

Then she told in strictest confidence that Georgia was very frail,
would probably die young, certainly would not reach twenty-five; and I
ought not to hesitate at what would make her life easier. Still, if I
had no regard for my sister's comfort, she would be compelled to send
us together afoot after the cows, and the exposure might be very bad
for Georgia. This was enough. I would wear the hated clothes and my
little sister should never learn from me the seriousness of her
condition, lest it should hasten her death.

My suit of brown twill, red flannel shirt, boots, and sou'wester, with
ear muffs attached, were ready for me before the heaviest winter storm.
The jacket and trousers were modelled for a boy of nine, instead of a
girl not yet eight, but grandma assured me that being all wool, the
rain would soon shrink them to my size, also that the boots, which were
too wide in the heel and hurt my toes, would shape themselves to my
feet and prevent the old frost bites from returning.

I was very unhappy while she helped me to dress, and pinned up my
braids, and hid them under my storm hat; and I was absolutely wretched
when she kissed me and said,

"It would be hard to find a prettier little boy than you are."

After again admonishing me to let no one on the range know I was a
girl, and to answer all questions civilly and ride on quickly after my
string of cows, she promised that if I helped her thus through the
short days of the rainy season, she would give back my "girl clothes"
in the Spring, and never again ask me to wear others.

She led me to where Charlie was tied to a tree. I stepped on to a
block, from there to a stump, put my foot into the stirrup, and
clumsily raised myself into the seat of an old dragoon saddle. My eyes
were too full of tears to see, but grandma put the reins in my hand and
started me away. Away where? To drive up the cows? Yes,—and into wider
fields of thought than she recked.

After I got beyond our road, I stopped Charlie, and made him turn his
face toward mine, and told him all that had happened, and just how I
felt. The good old horse seemed to understand, for no friend could be
more faithful than Charlie thenceforth proved to me. He learned to
separate our cows from the many strange ones on the plain; to move
faster when it rained; to choose the crossings that were safe; and to
avoid the branches that might scrape me from his back. Grandma was
pleased to learn that drivers on the range, when inquiring about
strays, addressed me as "Bubbie." My humiliation, however, was so great
that, though Georgia and I were room-mates, and had secret day
meetings, I never went near her when others were by.

She was allowed to play oftener with neighbors' children, and
occasionally spent a week or more with Mrs. Bergwald, helping her to
care for her little daughter. While away, she learned fine needlework,
had fewer crying spells, and was more contented than at home with
grandma.

This happiness in her life added much to mine, and it came to pass that
the duty which had seemed such a bitter task, became a pleasure. As the
days lengthened, chum Charlie and I kept earlier hours, and crept
closer to the heart of nature. We read the signs of the day in the dawn
tints; watched the coyotes and other night prowlers slink back to their
lairs; saw where the various birds went to housekeeping, and how they
cared for their young; knew them also by their call and song. We could
show where Johnnie-jump-ups and baby-blue-eyes grew thickest; where the
cream cups were largest; and where the wild forget-me-nots blossomed.
We explored each nook and corner for miles around, and felt that
everything that God had made and man had not put his mark upon was
ours.

The aged boughs heaped by the wind in wild confusion about the maimed
and storm-beaten tree-trunks seemed to assume fantastic shapes and
expressions as we approached from different directions, or viewed them
under light and shadow of changing weather. Gnarled and twisted, they
became elves and goblins, and the huge piles of storm wreckage were
transformed into weird old ruins and deserted castles like those which
grandma had described to me in legends of the Rhine. At twilight I was
often afraid to pass, lest giants and ghosts should show themselves
between uncanny arches. Then all that was needed was a low cluck to
Charlie, and off he would start on a run past imaginary dangers.

It was late in the Spring when grandma gave back my "girl clothes" and
wearily told me she had hired a boy to drive in the cows, and a man to
help to milk; and that Georgia was to look after the house, and I to
take her own place in the corrals, because she was sick and would have
to be cupped and bled before she could be better.

Grandpa came home early next day and everything was ready for the
treatment immediately after the noon meal. Grandma looked so grave, and
gave so many instructions about household and dairy matters, that
Georgia and I feared that we might lose her. I verily believe we would
have slipped away during the operation, had grandpa not commanded us to
stay near, as he might need assistance. In dread we watched every
movement, saw what made grandma's face pale, and where the sore spots
were. Indeed our sympathies were so strained, our fingers fumbled
awkwardly as we adjusted the covers about her weakened form.

As soon as her illness became known, neighbors came from far and near
to help with the dairy work or nursing; and keen was their
disappointment when she replied, "I thank you for your kind offers, but
the children are handy and know my ways."

Regularly she asked me about the cows, and if the goats had been
milked, the eggs gathered, and the pigs fed. She remembered and planned
the work, but did not regain strength as rapidly as she wished; nor did
she resume her place in the corrals, even after she was up and around,
but had a way of coming unexpectedly to see if her instructions were
being carried out.

One day she became quite angry on finding me talking with a stranger.
He was well dressed and spoke like a gentleman, touched his hat as she
drew near and remarked, "This little girl tells me she is an orphan,
and that you have been very kind to her." Grandma was uncivil in her
reply, and he went away. Then she warned me, "Beware of wolves in
sheep's clothing," and insisted that no man wearing such fine clothes
and having such soft hands could earn an honest living. I did not
repeat what he had told me of his little daughter, who lived in a
beautiful home in New York, and was about my age, and had no sister;
and his wish that I were there with her. I could not understand what
harm there was in his questions or my answers. Did I not remind him of
his own little girl? And had I not heard lonely miners tell of times
when they gladly would have walked ten miles to shake hands and talk a
few moments with a child?

CHAPTER XXVII

Captain Frisbie spent much time in Sonoma after Company H was
disbanded, and observing ones remarked that the attraction was Miss
Fannie Vallejo. Yet, not until 1851 did the General consent to part
with his first-born daughter. Weeks before the marriage day, friends
began arriving at the bride's home, and large orders came to grandma
for dairy supplies.

She anticipated the coming event with interest and pleasure, because
the prolonged and brilliant festivities would afford her an
opportunity to display her fancy and talent in butter modelling. For
the work, she did not charge, but simply weighed the butter for the
designs and put it into crocks standing in cold water in the adobe
store-house where, in the evenings, after candle-light, we three
gathered.

Her implements were a circular hardwood board, a paddle, a set of
small, well pointed sticks, a thin-bladed knife, and squares of white
muslin of various degrees of fineness. She talked and modelled, and we
listening watched the fascinating process; saw her take the plastic
substance, fashion a duck with ducklings on a pond, a lamb curled up
asleep, and a couched lion with shaggy head resting upon his fore-paws.
We watched her press beads of proper size and color into the eye
sockets; skilfully finish the base upon which each figure lay; then
twist a lump of butter into a square of fine muslin, and deftly
squeeze, until it crinkled through the meshes in form of fleece for the
lamb's coat, then use a different mesh to produce the strands for the
lion's mane and the tuft for the end of his tail.

In exuberant delight we exclaimed, "Oh, grandma, how did you learn to
make such wonderful things?"

"I did not learn, it is a gift," she replied.

Then she spoke of her modelling in childhood, and her subsequent
masterpiece, which had won the commendation of Napoleon and
Empress Josephine.

At that auspicious time, she was but eighteen years of age, and second
cook in the principal tavern of Neuchatel, Switzerland. Georgia and I
sat entranced, as with animated words and gestures she pictured the
appearance of the buglers and heralds who came weeks in advance to
announce the date on which the Emperor and Empress would arrive in that
town and dine at the tavern; then the excitement and enthusiastic
preparations which followed. She described the consultations between
the Herr Wirth and the Frau Wirthin and their maids; and how,
finally, Marie's butter-piece for the christening feast of the child of
the Herr Graf was remembered; and she, the lowly second cook, was told
that a corner in the cellar would be set apart for her especial use,
and that she should have her evenings to devote to the work, and three
groschen (seven and a half cents) added to her week's wages, if she
would produce a fitting centrepiece for the Emperor's table.

Five consecutive nights, she designed and modelled until the watchman's
midnight cry drove her from work, and at three o'clock in the morning
of the sixth day, she finished. And what a centrepiece it was! It
required the careful handling of no less than three persons to get it
in place on the table, where the Emperor might see at a glance the
groups of figures along the splendid highway, which was spanned by
arches and terminated with a magnificently wrought gateway, surmounted
by His Majesty's coat of arms.

We scarcely winked as we listened to the rest of the happenings on that
memorable day. She recounted how she had dropped everything at the
sound of martial music and from the tiny open space at the window
caught glimpses of the passing pageant—of the royal coaches, of the
maids of honor, of Josephine in gorgeous attire, of the snow-white
poodle snuggled close in the Empress's arms. Then she told how she
heard a heavy thud by the kitchen fire, which made her rush back, only
to discover that the head cook had fallen to the floor in a faint!

She gave the quick call which brought the Frau Wirthin to the scene of
confusion, where in mute agony, she looked from servant to servant,
until, with hands clasped, and eyes full of tears, she implored,
"Marie, take the higher place for the day, and with God's help, make no
mistake."

Then she went on to say that while the dinner was being served, the
Emperor admired the butter-piece, and on hearing that it was the work
of a young maidservant in the house, commanded that she be brought in
to receive commendation of himself and the Empress. Again the Frau
Wirthin rushed to the kitchen in great excitement, and—knowing that
Marie's face was red from heat of the fire, that she was nervous from
added responsibilities, and not dressed for presentation—cried with
quivering lips:

"Ah, Marie! the butter-piece is so grand, it brings us into trouble.
The great Emperor asks to see thee, and thou must come!"

She told how poor, red-faced, bewildered Marie dropped her ladle and
stared at the speaker, then rolled down her sleeves while the Frau
Wirthin tied her own best white apron around her waist, at the same
time instructing her in the manner in which she must hold her dress at
the sides, between thumb and forefinger, and spread the skirt wide, in
making a low, reverential bow. But Marie was so upset that she realized
only that her heart was beating like a trip-hammer, and her form
shaking like an aspen leaf, while being led before those august
personages. Yet, after it was all over, she was informed that the
Emperor and Empress had spoken kindly to her, and that she, herself,
had made her bow and backed out of the room admirably for one in her
position, and ought to feel that the great honor conferred upon her had
covered with glory all the ills and embarrassments she had suffered.

To impress us more fully with the importance of that event, grandma had
Georgia and me stand up on our cellar floor and learn to make that
deferential bow, she by turns, taking the parts of the Frau Wirthin,
the Emperor, and the Empress.

She now finished her modelling with a dainty centrepiece for the
bride's table, and let me go with her when she carried it to the
Vallejo mansion. It gave great satisfaction; and while the family and
guests were admiring it, Señora Vallejo took me by the hand, saying in
her own musical tongue, "Come, little daughter, and play while you
wait."

She led me to a room that had pictures on the walls, and left me
surrounded by toys. But I could not play. My eyes wandered about until
they became riveted on one corner of the room, where stood a child's
crib which looked like gold. Its head and foot boards were embellished
with figures of angels; and a canopy of lace like a fleecy cloud
hovered over them. The bed was white, but the pillows were covered with
pink silk and encased in slips of linen lawn, exquisite with rare
needlework. I touched it before I left the room, wondering what the
little girl dreamed in that beautiful bed; and on the way home, grandma
and I discussed all these things.

The linen pillow-slips were as fine as those Señorita Isabella Fitch
showed me, when she gave me the few highly prized lessons in simple
drawn-work; and her cousin, Señorita Leese, had taught me hemming.
These young ladies were related to the Vallejos and also lived in large
houses facing the plaza, and were always kind to Georgia and me. In
fact, some of my sweetest memories of Sonoma are associated with these
three Spanish homes. Their people never asked unfeeling questions, nor
repeated harrowing tales; and I did not learn until I was grown that
they had been among the large contributors to the fund for the relief
of our party.

I have a faint recollection of listening to the chimes of the wedding
bells, and later, of hearing that
Captain Frisbie had taken his bride
away; but that is all, for about that time dear old Jakie returned to
us in ill health, and our thoughts and care turned to him. He was so
feeble and wasted that grandma sent for the French physician who had
recently come among us. Even he said that he feared that Jakie had
stayed away too long. After months of treatment, the doctor shook his
head saying: "I have done my best with the medicines at hand. The only
thing that remains to be tried is a tea steeped from the nettle root.
That may give relief."

As soon as we could get ready after the doctor uttered those words,
Georgia and I, equipped with hoe, large knife, and basket were on our
way to the Sonoma River. We had a full two miles and a half to walk,
but did not mind that, because we were going for something that might
take Jakie's pains away. Georgia was to press down the nettle stems
with a stick, while I cut them off and hoed up the roots.

The plants towered luxuriantly above our heads, making the task
extremely painful. No sooner would I commence operations than the
branches, slipping from under the stick, would brush Georgia's face,
and strike my hands and arms with stinging force, and by the time we
had secured the required number of roots, we were covered with fiery
welts. We took off our shoes and stockings, waded into the stream and
bathed our faces, hands, and arms, then rested and ate the lunch we had
brought with us.

As we turned homeward, we observed several Indians approaching by the
bushy path, the one in front staggering, and his squaw behind, making
frantic motions to us to hurry over the snake fence near-by. This we
did as speedily as possible, and succeeded none too soon; for as we
reached the ground on the safe side, he stopped us, and angrily
demanded the contents of our basket. We opened it, and when he saw what
it contained he stamped his wabbling foot and motioned us to be off. We
obeyed with alacrity, for it was our first experience with a drunken
Indian, and greatly alarmed us.

The tea may have eased Jakie's pain, but it did not accomplish what we
had hoped. One morning late in Summer, he asked grandpa to bring a
lawyer and witnesses so that he could make his will. This request made
us all move about very quietly and feel very serious. After the lawyer
went away, grandma told us that Jakie had willed us each fifty dollars
in gold, and the rest of his property to grandpa and herself. A few
weeks later, when the sap ceased flowing to the branches of the trees,
and the yellow leaves were falling, we laid Jakie beside other friends
in the oak grove within sight of our house.

Grandma put on deep mourning, but Georgia and I had only black
sun-bonnets, which we wore with heartfelt grief. The following Spring
grandpa had the grave enclosed with a white paling; and we children
planted Castilian rose bushes at the head and foot of the mound, and
carried water to them from the house, and in time their branches met
and the grave was a bed of fragrant blossoms.

One day as I was returning from it with my empty pail, a tidy,
black-eyed woman came up to me and said,

"I'm a Cherokee Indian, the wife of one of the three drovers that sold
the Brunners them long-horned cattle that was delivered the other day.
I know who you are, and if you'll sit on that log by me, I'll tell you
something."

We took the seats shaded by the fence and she continued with
unmistakable pride: "I can read and write quite a little, and me and
the men belong to the same tribe. We drove our band of cattle across
the plains and over the Sierras, and have sold them for more than we
expected to get. We are going back the same road, but first I wanted to
see you little girls. I heard lots about your father's party, and how
you all suffered in the mountains, and that no one seems to remember
what became of his body. Now, child, I tell the truth. I stood by your
father's grave and read his name writ on the headboard, and come to
tell you that he was buried in a long grave near his own camp in the
mountains. I'm glad at seeing you, but am going away, wishing you
wasn't so cut off from your own people."

So earnest was she, that I believed what she told me, and was sorry
that I could not answer all her questions. We parted as most people did
in those days, feeling that the meeting was good, and the parting might
be forever.

CHAPTER XXVIII

The spring-tide of 1852 was bewitchingly beautiful; hills and plain
were covered with wild flowers in countless shapes and hues. They were
so friendly that they sprang up in dainty clusters close to the house
doors, or wherever an inch of ground would give them foothold.

They seemed to call to me, and I looked into their bright faces, threw
myself among them, and hugged as many as my arms could encircle, then
laid my ear close to the ground to catch the low sound of moving leaf
and stem, or of the mysterious ticking in the earth, which foretells
the coming of later plants. Sometimes in my ecstasy, I would shut my
eyes and lie still for a while, then open them inquiringly, to assure
myself that all my favorites were around me still, and that it was not
all a day-dream.

This lovely season mellowed into the Summer which brought a most
unexpected letter from our sister Frances, who had been living all
these years with the family of Mr. James F. Reed, in San Jose.
Childlike, she wrote:

I am happy, but there has not been a day since I left Sutter's Fort
that I haven't thought of my little sisters and wanted to see them.
Hiram Miller, our guardian, says he will take me to see you soon,
and Elitha is going too.

After the first few days of wondering, grandma rarely mentioned our
prospective visitors, nor did she show Georgia or me the letter she
herself had received from Elitha, but we re-read ours until we knew it
by heart, and were filled with delightful anticipations. We imagined
that our blue-eyed sister with the golden curls would look as she did
when we parted, and recalled many things that we had said and done
together at the Fort.

I asked grandma what "guardian" meant, and after she explained, I was
not pleased with mine, and dreaded his coming, for I had not forgotten
how Mr. Miller had promised me a lump of sugar that night in the
Sierras, and then did not have it for me after I had walked the
required distance; nor could I quite forgive the severe punishment he
administered next morning because I refused to go forward and cried to
return to mother when he told me that I must walk as far as Georgia and
Frances did that day.

Autumn was well advanced before the lumbering old passenger coach
brought our long-expected guests from the embarcadero, and after the
excitement of the meeting was over, I stealthily scanned each face and
figure. Mr. Miller's stocky form in coarse, dark clothes, his cold gray
eyes, uneven locks, stubby beard, and teeth and lips browned by
tobacco, chewing, were not unfamiliar; but he looked less tired, more
patient, and was a kindlier spoken man than I had remembered.

Elitha, well dressed, tall, slender, and regular of feature, had the
complexion and sparkling black eyes which mark the handsome brunette. I
was more surprised than disappointed, however, to see that the girl of
twelve, who slipped one arm around Georgia and the other around me in a
long, loving embrace, had nothing about her that resembled our little
sister Frances, except her blue eyes and motherly touch.

The week of their visit was joyous indeed. Many courtesies were
extended by friends with whom we had travelled from time to time on the
plains. One never-to-be-forgotten afternoon was spent with the Boggs
family at their beautiful home amid orchard and vineyard near the
foothills.

On Sunday, the bell of the South Methodist Church called us to service.
In those days, the men occupied the benches on one side of the
building, and the women and children on the other; and I noticed that
several of the young men found difficulty in keeping their eyes from
straying in our direction, and after service, more than one came to
inquire after grandma's health.

Mr. Miller passed so little time in our company that I remember only
his arrival and his one serious talk with grandma, when he asked her
the amount due her on account of the trouble and expense we two
children had been since she had taken us in charge. She told him
significantly that there was nothing to pay, because we were her
children, and that she was abundantly able to take care of us. In
proof, she handed him a daguerreotype taken the previous year.

It pictured herself comfortably seated, and one of us standing at
either side with an elbow resting upon her shoulder, and a chubby face
leaning against the uplifted hand. She was arrayed in her best cap,
handsome embroidered black satin dress and apron, lace sleeve ruffs,
kerchief, watch and chain. We were twin-like in lace-trimmed dresses of
light blue dimity, striped with a tan-colored vine, blue sashes and
hair ribbons; and each held a bunch of flowers in her hand. It was a
costly trinket, in a case inlaid with pink roses, in mother of pearl,
and she was very proud of it.

Grandma's answer to Mr. Miller was a death-knell to Elitha's hopes and
plans in our behalf. Her little daughter had been dead more than a
year. Sister Leanna had recently married and gone to a home of her own,
and the previous week the place made vacant by the marriage had been
given to Frances, with the ready approval of Hiram Miller and Mr. and
Mrs. Reed. She had now come to Sonoma hoping that if Mr. Miller should
pay grandma for the care we had been to her, she would consent to give
us up in order that we four sisters might be reunited in one home.
Elitha now foresaw that such a suggestion would not only result in
failure, but arouse grandma's antagonism, and cut off future
communication between us.

CHAPTER XXIX

GREAT SMALLPOX EPIDEMIC—ST. MARY'S HALL—THANKSGIVING DAY IN
CALIFORNIA—ANOTHER BROTHER-IN-LAW.

"Mrs. Brunner has become too childish to have the responsibility of
young girls," had been frequently remarked before Elitha's visit; and
after her departure, the same friends expressed regret that she had not
taken us away with her.

These whispered comments, which did not improve our situation, suddenly
ceased, for the smallpox made its appearance in Sonoma, and helpers
were needed to care for the afflicted. Grandma had had the disease in
infancy and could go among the patients without fear. In fact, she had
such confidence in her method of treating it, that she would not have
Georgia and me vaccinated while the epidemic prevailed, insisting that
if we should take the disease she could nurse us through it without
disfigurement, and we would thenceforth be immune. She did not expose
us during what she termed the "catching-stage," but after that had
passed, she called us to share her work and become familiar with its
details, and taught us how to brew the teas, make the ointments, and
apply them.

I do not remember a death among her patients, and only two who were
badly disfigured. One was our pretty Miss Sallie Lewis, who had the
dread disease in confluent form. Grandma was called hurriedly in the
night, because the afflicted girl, in delirium, had loosened the straps
which held her upon her bed, and while her attendant was out of the
room had rushed from the house into the rain, and was not found until
after she had become thoroughly drenched. Grandma had never before
treated such serious conditions, yet strove heroically, and helped to
restore Miss Sallie to health, but could not keep the cruel imprints
from her face.

The other was our arch-enemy, Castle, who seemed so near death that one
night as grandma was peering into the darkness for signal lights from
the homes of the sick, she exclaimed impulsively, "Hark, children!
there goes the Catholic bell. Count its strokes. Castle is a Catholic,
and was very low when I saw him to-day." Together we slowly counted the
knells until she stopped us, saying, "It's for somebody else; Castle is
not so old."

She was right. Later he came to us to recuperate, and was the most
exacting and profane man we ever waited on. He conceived a special
grudge against Georgia, whom he had caught slyly laughing when she
first observed the change in his appearance. Yet months previous, he
had laid the foundation for her mirth.

MRS. BRUNNER, GEORGIA AND ELIZA DONNER

S.O. HOUGHTON, Member of Col. J.D. Stevenson's First Regiment of N.Y. Volunteers

ELIZA P. DONNER

He was then a handsome, rugged fellow, and particularly proud of the
shape of his nose. Frequently had he twitted my sensitive sister about
her little nose, and had once made her very angry in the presence of
others, by offering to tell her a story, then continuing: "God and the
devil take turns in shaping noses. Now, look at mine, large and finely
shaped. This is God's work; but when yours was growing, it was the
devil's turn, and he shaped that little dab on your face and called it
a nose."

Georgia fled, and cried in anger over this indignity, declaring that
she hated Castle and would not be sorry if something should happen to
spoil his fine nose. So when he came to us from the sick-room, soured
and crestfallen because disease had deeply pitted and seamed that
feature which had formerly been his pride, she laughingly whispered,
"Well, I don't care, my nose could never look like his, even if I had
the smallpox, for there is not so much of it to spoil."

Our dislike of the man became intense; and later, when we discovered
that he was to be bartender at grandpa's bar, and board at our house,
we held an indignation meeting in the back yard. This was more
satisfaction to Georgia than to me, for she had the pleasure of
declaring that if grandma took that man to board, she would be a
Schweitzer child no longer, she would stop speaking German, make her
clothes like American children's; and that she knew her friend Mrs.
Bergwald would give her a home, if grandma should send her away.

Here the meeting was suddenly interrupted by the discovery that grandma
was standing behind us. We did not know how long she had been there nor
how much she had overheard, nor which she meant to strike with the
switch she had in her hand. However, we were sitting close together and
my left arm felt the sting, and it aroused in me the spirit of
rebellion. I felt that I had outgrown such correction, nor had I
deserved it; and I told her that she should never, never strike me
again. Then I walked to the house alone.

A few moments later Georgia came up to our room, and found me dressing
myself with greatest care. In amazement she asked, "Eliza, where are
you going?" and was dumbfounded when I answered, "To find another home
for us."

In the lower hall I encountered grandma, whose anger had cooled, and
she asked the question Georgia had. I raised my sleeve, showed the welt
on my arm, and replied, "I am going to see if I can't find a home where
they will treat me kindly."

Poor grandma was conscience-stricken, drew me into her own room, and
did not let me leave it until after she had soothed my hurts and we had
become friends again.

Georgia went to Mrs. Bergwald's, and remained quite a while. When she
came back speaking English, and insisting that she was an American,
grandma became very angry, and threatened to send her away among
strangers; then hesitated, as if realizing how fully Georgia belonged
to me and I to her, and that we would cling together whatever might
happen. In her perplexity, she besought Mrs. Bergwald's advice.

Now, Mrs. Bergwald was a native of Stockholm, a lady of rare culture,
and used the French language in conversing with grandma. She spoke
feelingly of my little sister, said that she was companionable,
willing, and helpful; anxious to learn the nicer ways of work, and
ladylike accomplishments. She could see no harm in Georgia wishing to
remain an American, since to love one's own people and country was
natural.

Thereafter grandma changed her methods. She gave us our dolls to look
at, and keep among our possessions, likewise most of our keepsakes. She
also unlocked her carefully tended parlor and we three spent pleasant
evenings there. Sometimes she would let us bring her, from under the
sofa, her gorgeous prints, illustrating "Wilhelm Tell," and would
repeat the text relating to the scenes as we examined each picture with
eager interest.

We were also allowed to go to Sunday school oftener, and later, she
sent me part of the term to the select school for girls recently
established by Dr. Ver Mehr, an Episcopalian clergyman. In fact, my
tuition was expected to offset the school's milk bill, yet that did not
lessen my enthusiasm. I was eager for knowledge. I also expected to
meet familiar faces in that great building, which had been the home of
Mr. Jacob Leese. But upon entering I saw only finely dressed young
ladies from other parts of the State promenading in the halls, and
small girls flitting about in the yard like bright-winged butterflies.
Some had received letters from home and were calling out the news;
others were engaged in games that were strange to me. The bell rang, I
followed to the recitation hall, and was assigned a seat below the
rest, because I was the only small Sonoma girl yet enrolled.

I made several life-long friends at that institute; still it was easy
to see that "St. Mary's Hall"
was established for pupils who had been
reared in the lap of wealth and ease; not for those whose hands were
rough like mine. Nor was there a class for me. I seemed to be between
grades, and had the discouragement of trying to keep up with girls
older and farther advanced.

My educational advantages in Sonoma closed with my half term at St.
Mary's Hall, grandma believing that I had gone to school long enough to
be able to finish my studies without teachers.

Georgia was more fortunate. When Miss Hutchinson
opened "The Young
Ladies' Seminary" in the Fall, grandma decided to lend it a helping
hand by sending her a term as a day scholar. My delighted sister was
soon in touch with a crowd of other little girls, and brought home many
of their bright sayings for my edification.

One evening she rushed into the house bubbling over with excitement and
joyously proclaimed: "Oh, Eliza, Miss Hutchinson is going to give a
great dinner to her pupils on Thanksgiving Day; and I am to go, and you
also, as her guest."

Grandma was pleased that I was invited, and declared that she would
send a liberal donation of milk and cheese as a mark of appreciation.

I caught much of Georgia's spirit of delight, for I had a vivid
recollection of the grand dinner given in commemoration of our very
first legally appointed Thanksgiving Day in California; I had only to
close my eyes, and in thought would reappear the longest and most
bountifully spread table I had ever seen. Turkey, chicken, and wild
duck, at the ends; a whole roasted pig in the centre, and more than
enough delicious accompaniments to cover the spaces between. Then the
grown folk dining first, and the flock of hungry children coming later;
the speaking, laughing, and clapping of hands, with which the old home
customs were introduced in the new land.

There, I wore a dark calico dress and sun-bonnet, both made by poor
Mrs. McCutchen of the Donner Party, who had to take in sewing for a
livelihood; but to the Seminary, I should wear grandpa's gift, a costly
alpaca, changeable in the sunlight to soft mingling bluish and greenish
colors of the peacock. Its wide skirt reached to my shoetops, and the
gathers to its full waist were gauged to a sharp peak in front. A wide
open V from the shoulder down to the peak displayed an embroidered
white Swiss chemisette. The sleeves, small at the wrist, were trimmed
with folds of the material and a quilling of white lace at the hand.

On the all-important morning, grandma was anxious that I should look
well; and after she had looped my braids with bows of blue ribbon and
fastened my dress, she brought forth my dainty bonnet, her own gift.
Deft fingers had shirred the pale-blue silk over a frame which had
been cut down from ladies' size, arranged an exquisite spray of
Maréchal Niel rosebuds and foliage on the outside, and quilled a soft
white ruching around the face, which emphasized the Frenchy style and
finish so pleasing to grandma.

Did I look old fashioned? Yes, for grandma said, "Thou art like a
picture I saw somewhere long ago." Then she continued brightly, "Here
are thy mits, and thy little embroidered handkerchief folded in a
square. Carry it carefully so it won't get mussed before the company
see it, and come not back late for milking."

The Seminary playground was so noisy with chatter and screams of joy,
that it was impossible to remember all the games we played; and later
the dining-room and its offerings were so surprising and so beautifully
decorated that the sight nearly deprived me of my appetite.

"Mumps. Bite a pickle and see if it ain't so!" exclaimed a neighbor to
whom Georgia was showing her painful and swollen face. True enough, the
least taste of anything sour produced the tell-tale shock. But the most
aggravating feature of the illness was that it developed the week that
sister Elitha and Mr.
Benjamin W. Wilder were married in Sacramento;
and when they reached Sonoma on their wedding tour, we could not visit
with them, because neither had had the disease.

They came to our house, and we had a hurried little talk with a closed
window between us, and were favorably impressed by our tall "Brother
Ben," who had very blue eyes and soft brown hair. He was the second of
the three Wilder brothers, who had been among the early gold-seekers,
and tried roughing it in the mines. Though a native of Rhode Island,
and of Puritan ancestry, he was quite Western in appearance.

Though not a wealthy man, he had a competency, for he and his elder
brother were owners of an undivided half of Ranchos de los Cazadores
(three leagues of land in Sacramento Valley), which was well stocked
with horned cattle and good horses. He was also interested in a stage
line running between Sacramento and the gold regions. He encouraged
Elitha in her wish to make us members of their household, and the home
they had to offer us was convenient to public schools; yet for obvious
reasons they were now silent on the subject.

CHAPTER XXX

IDEALS AND LONGINGS—THE FUTURE—CHRISTMAS.

At the time of which I now speak, I was in my eleventh year, but older
in feeling and thought. I had ideals and wanted to live up to them, and
my way was blocked by difficulties. Often, in the cowyard, I would say
to the dumb creatures before me,

"I shall milk you dry, and be kind to you as long as I stay; but I
shall not always be here doing this kind of work."

These feelings had been growing since the beginning of grandpa's
partnership in that bar-room. Neither he nor grandma saw harm in the
business. They regarded it as a convenient place where men could meet
and spend a social evening, and where strangers might feel at home.
Yet, who could say that harm did not emanate from that bar? I could not
but wish that grandpa had no interest in it. I did not want to blame
him, for he was kind by nature, and had been more than benefactor to
Georgia and me.

Fond recollection was ever bringing to mind joys he had woven into our
early childhood. Especially tender and precious thoughts were
associated with that night long ago when he hurried home to inspect a
daguerreotype that had just been taken. Grandma handed it to him with
the complaisant remark, "Mine and Georgia's sind fine; but Eliza's
shows that she forgot herself and ist watching how the thing ist being
made."

Grandpa looked at it in silence, observing that grandma's likeness was
natural, and Georgia's perfect, in fact, pretty as could be; while I,
not being tall enough to rest my elbow comfortably upon grandma's
shoulder, stood awkwardly with my flowers drooping and eyes turned,
intently watching in the direction of the operator. Regretfully, I
explained:

"Grandpa, mine was best two times, for Georgia moved in the first one,
and grandma in the next, and the pictureman said after each, 'We must
try again.' And he would have tried yet again, for me, but the sun was
low, and grandma said she was sorry but this would have to do."

Lovingly, he then drew me to his side, saying, "Never mind, mein
Schatz (my treasure); let grandma and Georgia keep this, and when that
pictureman comes back, grandpa will sit for his picture, and thou shalt
stand at his knee. He'll buy thee a long gold chain to wear around thy
neck, and thou shalt be dressed all in white and look like an angel."

Being younger than grandma, and more fond of amusements, he had taken
us to many entertainments; notably, Odd Fellows' picnics and dinners,
where he wore the little white linen apron, which we thought would be
cute for our dolls. He often reminded grandma that she should teach us
to speak the high German, so that we might appear well among
gentlefolk; and my cherished keepsakes included two wee gold dollars
and a fifty-cent piece of the same bright metal, which he had given me
after fortunate sales from the herds. But dearest of all is remembrance
of the evening long ago when he befriended us at Sutter's Fort.

Still, not even those tender recollections could longer hold in check
my resentment against the influences and associations which were
filtering through that bar-room, and robbing me of companions and
privileges that I valued. More than once had I determined to run away,
and then desisted, knowing that I should leave two lonely old people
grieving over my seeming ingratitude. This question of duty to self and
to those who had befriended me haunted my working hours, went with me
to church and Sunday school, and troubled my mind when I was supposed
to be asleep.

Strange, indeed, would it have seemed to me, could I then have known
that before my thirtieth year, I should be welcomed in the home of the
military chief of our nation. Strange, also, that the young Lieutenant,
William Tecumseh Sherman, who when visiting in Sonoma, came with his
fellow-officers to the Brunner farm, should have attained that dignity.
Equally impossible would it have been then to conceive that in so short
a time, I, a happy mother and the wife of a Congressional
Representative, should be a guest at the brilliant receptions of the
foreign diplomats and at the Executive Mansion in the city of
Washington. Is it any wonder that in later years when my mind reverted
to those days, I almost questioned my identity?

Georgia's return from Mrs. Bergwald's before Christmas gave me a chance
to talk matters over with her, and we decided that we must leave our
present surroundings. Yet, how to get away, and when, puzzled us. Our
only hope of escape seemed to be to slip off together some moonlight
night.

"But," my sister remarked gravely, "we can't do it before Christmas!
You forget the white flannel skirt that I am embroidering for grandma,
the pillow-slips that you are hemstitching and trimming with lace for
her; and the beautiful white shirt that you have for grandpa."

She was sure that not to stay and give them as we had planned, would be
as bad as breaking a promise. So, we took out our work and hid
ourselves to sew a while.

My undertaking was not so large or elaborate as hers, and when I
finished, she still had quite a piece to do, and was out of floss. She
had pin-pricked from an embroidered silk shawl on to strips of white
paper, the outline of a vine representing foliage, buds, and blossoms;
then basted the paper in place around the skirt. The colors were shaded
green and pink. Unable to get the floss for the blossoms, she had
bought narrow pink silk braid and outlined each rose and bud, then
embroidered the foliage in green. Some might have thought it a trifle
gaudy, but to me it seemed beautiful, and I was proud of her
handiwork.

I washed, starched, and ironed the pillow-slips while grandma was from
home, and they did look well, for I had taken great pains in doing my
work. Several days before the appointed time, grandma, in great good
humor, showed us the dresses she had been hiding from us; and then and
there, like three children unable to keep their secrets longer, we
exchanged gifts, and were as pleased as if we had waited until
Christmas morning.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE WIDOW STEIN AND LITTLE JOHNNIE—"DAUGHTERS OF A SAINTED
MOTHER"—ESTRANGEMENT AND DESOLATION—A RESOLUTION AND A VOW—MY PEOPLE
ARRIVE AND PLAN TO BEAR ME AWAY.

On the first of September, 1855, a widow, whom I shall call Stein, and
her little son Johnnie, came to visit grandma. She considered herself a
friend by reason of the fact that she and her five children had been
hospitably entertained in our home two years earlier, upon their
arrival in California. For grandpa in particular she professed a high
regard, because her husband had been his bartender, and as such had
earned money enough to bring his family from Europe, and also to pay
for the farm which had come to her at his death.

Mother and son felt quite at home, and in humor to enjoy their
self-appointed stay of two weeks. Despite her restless eye and sinister
smile, she could be affable; and although, at first, I felt an
indescribable misgiving in her presence, it wore away, and I often
amused Johnnie while she and grandma talked.

As if to hasten events, Mrs. Bergwald had sent for Georgia almost at
the beginning of the visit of the Steins; and after her departure, Mrs.
Stein insisted on helping me with the chores, and then on my sitting
with her during grandma's busiest hour.

She seemed deeply interested in California's early history, and when I
would stop talking, she would ply me with questions. So I told her how
poor everybody was before the discovery of gold; how mothers would send
their boys to grandma's early morning fire for live coals, because they
had no matches or tinder boxes; how neighbors brought their coffee and
spices to grind in her mills; how the women gathered in the afternoons
under her great oak tree, to talk, sew, and eagerly listen to the
reading of extracts from letters and papers that had come from friends
away back in the States. I told her how, in case of sickness, one
neighbor would slip over and cook the family breakfast for the sick
woman, others would drop in later, wash the dishes, and put the house
in order; and so by turns and shares, the washing, ironing, and mending
would be done, and by the time the sick woman would be up and around,
she would have no neglected work to discourage her. Also we talked of
how flags were used for day signals and lights by night, in calls for
help.

Our last talk was on Saturday morning between work. She questioned me
in regard to the amount, and location of the property of the Brunners,
then wanted to hear all about my sisters in Sacramento, and wondered
that we did not go to live with them. I explained that Elitha had
written us several times asking us to come, but, knowing that grandma
would be displeased, we had not read her those parts of the letters,
lest she forbid our correspondence entirely. I added that we were very
sorry that she could not like those who were dear to us.

Finally, having exhausted information on several subjects, Mrs. Stein
gave me a searching glance, and after a marked silence, continued: "I
don't wonder that you love grandpa and grandma as much as you tell me,
and it is a pity about these other things that aren't pleasant. Don't
you think it would be better for you to live with your sister, and
grandma could have some real German children to live here? She is old,
and can't help liking her own kind of people best."

I did not have an unkind thought in mind, yet I did confess that I
should like to live well and grow up to be like my mother. In
thoughtless chatter I continued, that more nice people came to visit
grandma and to talk with us before the town filled with strangers, and
before Americans lived in the good old Spanish houses, and before the
new churches and homes were built.

She led me to speak of mother, then wondered at my vivid recollections,
since I had parted from her so young. She was very attentive as I told
how Georgia and I spoke of her when we were by ourselves, and that
friends did not let us forget her. I even cited a recent instance, when
the teacher had invited us, and two other young girls, to go to the
Vallejo pear orchard for all the fruit we wished to eat, and when he
offered the money in payment, the old Spanish gentleman in charge said,
"Pay for three."

"But we are five," said the teacher.

Then the Don blessed himself with the sign of the cross, and pointing
to Georgia and me, replied, "Those two are daughters of a sainted
mother, and are always welcome!"

At noon grandma told me that she and the Steins would be ready to go
down town immediately after dinner, and that I must wash the dishes and
finish baking the bread in the round oven. We parted in best of humor,
and I went to work. The dishes and bread received first attention. Then
I scrubbed the brick floor in the milk-house; swept the store-room and
front yard; gathered the eggs, fed the chickens, and rebuilt the fire
for supper. I fancied grandma would be pleased with all I had
accomplished, and laughed to myself as I saw the three coming home
leaning close to each other in earnest conversation.

To my surprise, the Steins went directly to their own room; and grandma
did not speak, but closed her eyes as she passed me. That was her way,
and I knew that it would be useless to ask what had offended her. So I
took my milk pails, and, wondering, went to the cow corrals. I could
not imagine what had happened, yet felt hurt and uncomfortable.

Returning with the milk, I saw Johnnie playing by the tree, too near
the horse's feet, and warned him. As he moved, grandma stepped forward
and stood in front of me, her face white with rage. I set my buckets
down and standing between them listened as she said in German:

"Oh, false one, thou didst not think this morning that I would so soon
find thee out. Thou wast not smart enough to see that my friend, Mrs.
Stein, was studying thee, so that she could let me know what kind of
children I had around me. And thou, like a snake in the grass, hast
been sticking out thy tongue behind my back. Thou pretendest that thou
art not staying here to get my money and property, yet thou couldst
tell her all I had. Thou wouldst not read all in the letters from thy
fine sisters? Thou wouldst rather stay here until I die and then be
rich and spend it with them!"

She stopped as if to catch her breath, and I could only answer,
"Grandma, I have not done what thou sayest."

She continued: "I have invited people to come here this night, and thou
shalt stand before them and listen while I tell what I have done for
thee, and how thou hast thanked me. Now, go, finish thy work, eat thy
supper, and come when I call thee."

I heard her call, but don't know how I got into the room, nor before
how many I stood. I know that my head throbbed and my feet almost
refused to support my body, as I listened to grandma, who in forceful
language declared that she had taken me, a starveling, and reared me
until I was almost as tall as she herself; that she had loved and
trusted me, and taught me everything I knew, and that I had that day
blackened the home that had sheltered me, wounded the hand that had fed
me, and proved myself unworthy the love that had been showered upon
me. Mrs. Stein helped her through an account of our morning chat,
misconstruing all that had passed between us.

I remained silent until the latter had announced that almost the first
thing that she had noticed was that we children were of a selfish,
jealous disposition, and that Georgia was very cross when her little
Johnnie came home wearing a hat that grandpa had bought him. Then I
turned upon her saying, "Mrs. Stein, you forget that Georgia has not
seen that hat. You know that grandma bought it after Georgia went
away."

She sprang toward me, then turned to grandma, and asked if she was
going to let an underling insult a guest in her house.

I did not wait for the reply. I fled out into the dark and made my way
to the weird old tree-trunk in the back yard. Thence, I could see the
lights from the windows, and at times hear the sound of voices. There,
I could stand in the starlight and look up to the heavens. I had been
there before, but never in such a heartsick and forlorn condition. I
was too overwrought to think, yet had to do something to ease the
tension. I moved around and looked toward Jakie's grave, then returned
to the side of the tree-trunk which had escaped the ravages of fire,
and ran my finger up and down, feeling the holes which the red-headed
woodpecker had bored and filled with acorns.

A flutter in the air aroused me. It was the old white-faced owl leaving
the hollow in the live oak for the night's hunt. I faced about and saw
her mate fly after her. Then in the stillness that followed, I
stretched both arms toward heaven and cried aloud, "O God, I'm all
alone; take care of me!"

The spell was broken. I grew calmer and began to think and to plan. I
pictured Georgia asleep in a pretty house two miles away, wondered how
I could get word to her and what she would say when told that we would
go away together from Sonoma, and not take anything that grandpa or
grandma had given us.

I remembered that of the fund which we had started by hemming new, and
washing soiled handkerchiefs for the miners, there still remained in
her trunk seven dollars and eighty-five cents, and in mine seven
dollars and fifty cents. If this was not enough to take us to
Sacramento, we might get a chance as Sister Leanna had, to work our
way.

I was still leaning against the tree-trunk when the moon began to peep
over the eastern mountains, and I vowed by its rising that before it
came up in its full, Georgia and I should be in Sacramento.

I heard grandma's call from the door, which she opened and quickly
closed, and I knew by experience that I should find a lighted candle on
the table, and that no one would be in the room to say good-night. I
slept little, but when I arose in the morning I was no longer trouble
tossed. I knew what I would say to grandma if she should give me the
chance.

Grandpa, who had come home very late, did not know what had happened,
and he and I breakfasted with the men, and grandma and the Steins came
after we left the room. No one offered to help me that morning, still I
got through my duties before grandma called me to her. She seemed more
hurt than angry, and began by saying:

"On account of thy bad conduct, Mrs. Stein is going to shorten her
stay. She is going to leave on Tuesday, and wants me to go with her.
She says that she has kept back the worst things that thou hast told
about me, but will tell them to me on the road."

Trembling with indignation, I exclaimed, "Oh, grandma, thou hast always
told us that it is wrong to speak of the faults of a guest in the
house, but what dost thou think of one who hath done what Mrs. Stein
hath done? I did say some of the things she told thee, but I did not
say them in that way. I didn't give them that meaning. I didn't utter
one unkind word against thee or grandpa. I have not been false to thee.
To prove it, I promise to stay and take care of everything while thou
goest and hearest what more she hath to tell, but after the
home-coming, I leave. Nothing that thou canst say will make me change
my mind. I am thankful for the home I have had, but will not be a
burden to thee longer. I came to thee poor, and I will go away poor."

The Brunner conveyance was at the door on Tuesday morning when grandma
and her guest came out to begin their journey. Grandpa helped grandma
and the widow on to the back seat. While he was putting Johnnie in
front with the driver, I stepped close to the vehicle, and extended my
hand to grandma, saying, "Good-bye, don't worry about the dairy while
thou art gone, for everything will be attended to until thy return; but
remember—then I go."

On the way back to the house grandpa asked why I did not treat the
widow more friendly, and I answered, "Because I don't believe in her."
To my surprise, he replied, "I don't either, but grandma is like a
little child in her hands."

I felt that I ought to tell him I should soon go away, but I had never
gone to him with home troubles, and knew that it would not be right to
speak of them in grandma's absence; so he quietly went to his duties
and I to mine. Yet I could not help wondering how grandma could leave
me in full charge of her possessions if she believed the stories that
had been told her. I felt so sure that the guilty one would be found
out that it made me light-hearted.

Mrs. Blake came and spent the night with me, and the following morning
helped to get the breakfast and talked over the cleaning that I wished
to do before grandma's return on the coming Saturday morning. But

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform,

and unseen hands were shaping a different course for me! I had the milk
skimmed, and a long row of clean pans in the sunshine before time to
hurry the dinner for grandpa and the three men. I was tired, for I had
carried most of the milk to the pig troughs after having finished work
which grandma and I had always done together; so I sat down under the
tree to rest and meditate.

My thoughts followed the travellers with many questions, and the wish
that I might hear what Mrs. Stein had to say. I might have overstayed
my time, if the flock of goats had not come up and smelled my hands,
nibbled at the hem of my apron, and tried to chew the cape of my
sun-bonnet. I sprang up and with a shout and clap of my hands,
scattered them, and entered the log kitchen, reclosing the lower
section of the divided door, to keep them from following me within.

I prepared the dinner, and if it lacked the flavor of grandma's
cooking, those who ate it did not tell me. Grandpa lingered a moment to
bestow a meed of praise on my work, then went off to the back corral to
slaughter a beef for the shop. I began clearing the table, and was
turning from it with a vegetable dish in each hand when I caught sight
of the shadow of a tall silk hat in the open space above the closed
half door. Then the hat and its wearer appeared.

Leaning over the edge of the door, he gazed at me standing there as if
I were nailed to the floor. I was speechless with amazement, and it
seemed a long while before he remarked lightly, "You don't seem to know
me."

"Yes, you are Mr. Wilder, my brother-in-law," I stammered. "Where is
Elitha?"

SACRAMENTO CITY IN THE EARLY FIFTIES

FRONT STREET, SACRAMENTO CITY, 1850

He informed me that she and their little daughter were at the hotel
in town, where they had arrived about noon, and that she wanted Georgia
and me to be prompt in coming to her at four o'clock. I told him that
we could not do so, because Georgia was at Mrs. Bergwald's, grandma on
a journey beyond Bodego, and I at home in charge of the work.

In surprise he listened, then asked, "But aren't you at all anxious to
see your sister and little niece?"

Most earnestly, I replied that I was. Nevertheless, as grandma was
away, I could not leave the place until after the day's work was done.
Then I enumerated what was before me. He agreed that there was quite
enough to keep me busy, yet insisted that I ought to keep the
appointment for four o'clock. After his departure, I rushed out to
grandpa, told him who had come and gone, and what had passed between
us. He too, regretted the situation, but promised that I should spend
the evening at the hotel.

I fairly flew about my work that afternoon, and my brain was as active
as my hands and feet. I was certain that brother and sister had come
for us, and the absorbing query was, "How did they happen to arrive at
this particular time?" I also feared there was more trouble before me,
and remembered my promise to grandma with twinges of regret.

At half-past four, I was feeding the hens in the yard, and, looking up,
saw a strange carriage approaching. Instantly, I guessed who was in it,
and was at the gate before it stopped. Elitha greeted me kindly, but
not cordially. She asked why I had not come as requested, and then
said, "Go, bring the silver thimble Frances left here, and the coral
necklace I gave you."

In my nervous haste I could not find the thimble, but carried out the
necklace. She next bade me take the seat beside her, thus disclosing
her intention of carrying me on, picking up Georgia and proceeding to
Sacramento. She was annoyed by my answer and disappointed in what she
termed my lack of pride. Calling my attention to my peculiar style of
dress and surroundings, to my stooped shoulders and callous hands, she
bade me think twice before I refused the comfortable home she had to
offer.

When assured that I would gladly go on Saturday, but was unwilling to
leave in grandma's absence, she did not urge further, simply inquired
the way to Georgia, and left me.

I was nursing my disappointment and watching the disappearing carriage,
when Mr. Knipp, the brewer, with his load of empty kegs drew up, and
asked what I was thinking about so hard. It was a relief to see his
jolly, good-natured face, and I told him briefly that our people were
in town and wished to take us home with them. He got down from his
wagon to say confidentially:

"Thou must not leave grandpa and grandma, because the old man is always
kind to thee, and though she may sometimes wag a sharp tongue, she
means well. Be patient, by-and-by thou wilt have a nice property, the
country will have more people for hire, and thou wilt not have so hard
to work."

When I told him that I did not want the property, and that there were
other things I did care for, he continued persuasively:

"Women need not so much learning from books. Grandma would not know how
to scold so grandly if she remembered not so many fine words from
'Wilhelm Tell' and the other books that she knoweth by heart." And he
climbed back and drove off, believing that he had done me a good turn.

To my great satisfaction, Georgia arrived about dark, saying that
Benjamin had brought her and would call for us later to spend the
evening with them. When we reached the hotel, Elitha received us
affectionately, and did not refer to the disappointments of the
afternoon. The time was given up to talk about plans for our future,
and that night when we two crept into bed, I felt that I had been eased
of a heavy burden, for Benjamin was willing to await grandma's return.

He also told us that early next morning he would go to Santa Rosa, the
county seat, and apply to be made our guardian in place of Hiram
Miller, and would also satisfy any claim grandma might have to us, or
against us, adding that we need not take anything away with us, except
our keepsakes.

CHAPTER XXXII

GRANDMA'S RETURN—GOOD-BYE TO THE DUMB CREATURES—GEORGIA AND I ARE OFF
FOR SACRAMENTO.

Meanwhile, grandma and her friends had reached Bodego and spent the
night there. She had not learned anything more terrible that I had said
about her, and at breakfast told Mrs. Stein that she had had a dream
foreboding trouble, and would not continue the journey to the Stein
home. The widow coaxed and insisted that she go the few remaining miles
to see her children. Then she waxed indignant and let slip the fact
that she considered it an outrage that American, instead of European
born children should inherit the Brunner property, and that she had
hoped that grandma would select two of her daughters to fill the places
from which Georgia and I should be expelled.

Grandma took a different view of the matter, and started homeward
immediately after breakfast.

That very afternoon, on the Santa Rosa road, whom should she pass but
our brother Ben. They recognized each other, but were too astonished to
speak. Grandma ordered her driver to whip up, saying that she had just
seen the red-whiskered imp of darkness who had troubled her sleep, and
she must get to town as fast as possible.

She stopped first at the butcher shop. Before grandpa could express
surprise at her unexpected return, she showered him with questions in
regard to happenings at home, and being informed, took him to task for
having permitted us to visit our people at the hotel. He innocently
remarked that he knew of no reason why we should not see our relatives;
that Georgia was spending the day with them; and that we both had his
permission to go again in the evening. In conclusion he said that I had
been a faithful, hard working little housekeeper, and she would find
everything in order at home.

Grandma arrived at home before sunset, too excited to be interested in
dairy matters. She told me all about her trip, even to the name she had
called my brother-in-law, adding that she knew he was "not
red-whiskered, but he was next door to it." Later, when he came, she
did not receive him pleasantly, nor would she let us go to Elitha.
Brusquely, she demanded to know if I had written to him to come for us,
and would not believe him when he assured her that neither he nor our
sisters had received letter or message from us in months.

After his departure, I could see that she was no longer angry, and I
dreaded the ensuing day, which was destined to be my last on that farm.

It came with a rosy dawn, and I was up to meet it, and to say good-bye
to the many dumb creatures that I had cared for. The tension I was
under lent me strength to work faster than usual. When the breakfast
call sounded, I had finished in the corrals, and was busy in the hen
houses, having taken care to keep out of grandpa's sight; for I knew
how he would miss me, and I did not want to say the parting words.
After he and the men were gone, grandma came, and watched me finish my
task, then said kindly,

"Come, Eliza, and eat thy breakfast."

I looked up and replied,

"Grandma, I ate my last meal in thy house last night. Dost thou not
remember, I told thee that I would take care of everything until thy
return, and then would not be a burden to thee longer? I have kept my
word, and am going away this morning."

"Thou are mine, and canst not go; but if thou wilt not eat, come and
help me with the dishes," she replied nervously.

I had planned to slip off and change my dress before meeting her, but
now, after a breath of hesitation, I went to dry the dishes, hoping
that our talk would soon be over. I knew it would be hard for both of
us, for dear, childish grandma was ready to forgive and forget what she
termed our little troubles. I, however, smarting under the wrong and
injustice that had been done me, felt she had nothing to forgive, and
that matters between us had reached the breaking-point.

She was still insisting on her right to keep me, when a slight sound
caused us both to turn, and meeting Georgia's anxious, listening gaze,
grandma appealed to her, saying,

"Thou hast heard thy sister's talk, but thou hast not been in this
fuss, and surely wilt not leave me?"

"Yes, I am going with Eliza," was the prompt answer, which had no
sooner left her lips, than grandma resorted to her last expedient: she
ordered us both to our room, and forbade us to leave it until she
should hear from grandpa.

What message she sent him by the milker we never learned. Georgia,
being already dressed for the journey, and her trunk containing most of
her possessions being at Mrs. Bergwald's, had nothing to do but await
results.

I quickly changed my working suit for a better one, which had been
given me by a German friend from San Francisco. Then I laid out my
treasured keepsakes. In my nervous energy, nothing was forgotten. I
took pains that my clothes against the wall should hang in straight
rows, that the folded ones should lie in neat piles in my pretty
Chinese trunk, and that the bunch of artificial flowers which I had
always kept for a top centre mark, should be exactly in the middle;
finally, that the gray gauze veil used as a fancy covering of the whole
should be smoothly tucked in around the clothing. This done, I gave a
parting glance at the dainty effect, dropped the cover, snapped the
queer little brass padlock in place, put the key on the table, and
covered the trunk so that its embossed figures of birds and flowers
should be protected from harm.

We had not remembered to tell Elitha about the hundred dollars which
Jakie had willed us, so decided to let grandma keep it to cover some
of the expense we had been to her, also not to ask for our little
trinkets stored in her closet.

With the bundle containing my keepsakes, I now sat down by Georgia and
listened with bated breath to the sound of grandma's approaching
footsteps. She entered and hastily began,

"Grandpa says, if you want to go, and your people are here to take you,
we have no right to keep you; but that I am not to part with you bad
friends. So I came to shake hands and say good-bye. But I don't forgive
you for going away, and I never want to see you or hear from you
again!"

She did not ask to see what we were taking away, nor did her good-bye
seem like parting.

The fear that something might yet arise to prevent our reaching brother
and sister impelled us to run the greater part of the distance to the
hotel, and in less than an hour thereafter, we were in the carriage
with them on the way to Mrs. Bergwald's, prior to taking the road to
Sacramento.

Off at last, without a soul in the town knowing it!

Georgia, who had neither said nor done anything to anger grandma, was
easier in mind and more comfortable in body, than I, who, fasting, had
borne the trials of the morning. I could conceal the cause, but not the
faint and ill feeling which oppressed me during the morning drive and
continued until I had had something to eat at the wayside inn, and a
rest, while the horses were enjoying their nooning.

I had also been too miserable to feel any interest in what occurred at
Mrs. Bergwald's after we stopped to let Georgia get her keepsakes. But
when the day's travel was over, and we were comfortably housed for the
night, Georgia and I left our brother and sister to their happy hour
with their child, and sat close together on the outer doorsteps to
review the events of the day. Our world during that solemn hour was
circumscribed, reaching back only to the busy scenes of the morning,
and forward to the little home that should open to us on the morrow.

When we resumed travel, we did not follow the pioneers' trail, once
marked by hoof of deer, elk, and antelope, nor the winding way of the
Spanish cabellero, but took the short route which the eager tradesman
and miner had hewn and tramped into shape.

On reaching the ferry across the Sacramento River, I gazed at the
surrounding country in silent amazement. Seven and a half years with
their marvellous influx of brawn and brain, and their output of gold,
had indeed changed every familiar scene, except the snow-capped
Sierras, wrapped in their misty cloak of autumnal blue. The broad, deep
river had given up both its crystal floods and the wild, free song
which had accompanied it to the sea, and become a turbid waterway,
encumbered with busy craft bringing daily supplies to countless homes,
and carrying afar the long hidden wealth of ages.

The tule flat between the water front and Sutter's Fort had become a
bustling city. The streets running north and south were numbered from
first to twenty-eighth, and those east and west lettered from A to Z,
and thriving, light-hearted throngs were pursuing their various
occupations upon ground which had once seemed like a Noah's ark to me.
Yes, this was the very spot where with wondering eyes I had watched
nature's untamed herds winding through the reedy paths to the river
bank, to quench their morning and evening thirst.

As we crossed from J Street to K, brother remarked, "Our journey will
end on this street; which of you girls will pick out the house before
we come to it?"

Elitha would not help us, but smiled, when, after several guesses, I
said that I wished it to be a white house with brownish steps and a
dark door with a white knob. Hence, great was my satisfaction when near
the southeast corner of Eighteenth and K streets, we halted in front of
a cottage of that description; and it was regarded as a lucky omen for
me, that my first wish amid new scenes should be realized.

The meeting with Sister Frances and the novelty of the new situation
kept up a pleasurable excitement until bed-time. Then in the stillness
of the night, in the darkness of the new chamber, came the recollection
that at about that hour one week ago, I, sorrowing and alone, had stood
by a weird old tree-trunk in Sonoma, and vowed by the rising moon that
before it should come up again in its full, Georgia and I would be in
Sacramento. I did not sleep until I had thanked the good Father for
sending help to me in my time of need.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS OF SACRAMENTO—A GLIMPSE OF GRANDPA—THE RANCHO DE
LOS CAZADORES—MY SWEETEST PRIVILEGE—LETTERS FROM THE BRUNNERS.

It is needless to say that we were grateful for our new home, and tried
to express our appreciation in words and by sharing the household
duties, and by helping to make the neat clothing provided for us.

The first Monday in October was a veritable red-letter day. Aglow with
bright anticipations, we hurried off to public school with Frances. Not
since our short attendance at the pioneer school in Sonoma had Georgia
and I been schoolmates, and never before had we three sisters started
out together with books in hand; nor did our expectations overreach the
sum of happiness which the day had in store for us.

The supposition that grandpa and grandma had passed out of our lives
was soon disproved; for as I was crossing our back yard on the Saturday
of that first week of school, I happened to look toward Seventeenth
Street, and saw a string of wagons bringing exhibits from the fair
grounds. Beside the driver of a truck carrying a closed cage marked,
"Buffalo," stood grandpa. He had risen from his seat, leaned back
against the front of the cage, folded his arms and was looking at me.
My long black braids had been cut off, and my style of dress changed,
still he had recognized me. I fled into the house, and told Elitha what
I had seen. She, too, was somewhat disquieted, and replied musingly,

"The old gentleman is lonely, and may have come to take you girls back
with him."

His presence in Sacramento so soon after our reaching there did seem
significant, because he had bought that buffalo in 1851, before she was
weaned from the emigrant cow that had suckled and led her in from the
great buffalo range, and he had never before thought of exhibiting her.

The following afternoon, as we were returning from Sunday school, a
hand suddenly reached out of the crowd on J Street and touched
Georgia's shoulder, then stopped me. A startled backward glance rested
on Castle, our old enemy, who said,

"Come. Grandpa is in town, and wants to see you." We shook our heads.
Then he looked at Frances, saying, "All of you, come and see the large
seal and other things at the fair."

But she replied, emphatically, "We have not permission," and grasping a
hand of each, hurried us homeward. For days thereafter, we were on the
alert guarding against what we feared might happen.

Photographs by Lynwood Abbott. PINES OF THE SIERRAS

GENERAL JOHN A. SUTTER

COL. J.D. STEVENSON

Our alarm over, life moved along smoothly. Elitha admonished us to
forget the past, and prepare for the future. She forbade Georgia and me
to use the German language in speaking with each other, giving as a
reason that we should take Frances into our confidence and thoughts as
closely as we took one another.

I was never a morbid child, and the days that I did not find a sunbeam
in life, I was apt to hunt for a rainbow. But there, in sight of the
Sierras, the feeling again haunted me that perhaps my mother did not
die, but had strayed from the trail and later reached the settlement
and could not find us. Each middle-aged woman that I saw ahead of me on
the street would thrill me with expectation, and I would quicken my
steps in order to get a view of her face. When I gave up this illusion,
I still prayed that Keseberg would send for me some day, and let me
know her end, and give me a last message. I wanted his call to me to be
voluntary, so that I might know that his words were true. These hopes
and prayers were sacred, even from Georgia.

On the twenty-fourth of March, 1856, brother Ben took us all to pioneer
quarters on Rancho de los Cazadores, where their growing interests
required the personal attention of the three brothers. There we became
familiar with the pleasures, and also the inconveniences and hardships
of life on a cattle ranch. We were twenty miles from town, church, and
school; ten miles from the post office; and close scrutiny far and wide
disclosed but one house in range. Our supply of books was meagre, and
for knowledge of current events, we relied on
The Sacramento Union,
and on the friends who came to enjoy the cattleman's hospitality.

My sweetest privilege was an occasional visit to cousin Frances Bond,
my mother's niece, who, with her husband and child, had settled on a
farm about twelve miles from us. She also had grown up a motherless
girl, but had spent a part of her young ladyhood at our home in
Illinois. She had helped my mother to prepare for our long journey and
would have crossed the plains with us had her father granted her wish.
She was particularly fond of us "three little ones" whom she had
caressed in babyhood. She related many pleasing incidents connected
with those days, and spoke feelingly, yet guardedly, of our experiences
in the mountains. Like Elitha, she hoped we would forget them, and as
she watched me cheerfully adapting myself to new surroundings, she
imagined that time and circumstances were dimming the past from my
memory.

She did not understand me. I was light-hearted because I was old enough
to appreciate the blessings that had come to me; old enough to look
ahead and see the pure, intelligent womanhood opening to me; and
trustful enough to believe that my expectations in life would be
realized. So I gathered counsel and comfort from the lips of that
sympathetic cousin, and loved her word pictures of the home where I was
born.

Nor could change of circumstances wean my grateful thoughts from
Grandpa and Grandma Brunner. At times, I seemed to listen for the sound
of his voice, and to hear hers so near and clear that in the night, I
often started up out of sleep in answer to her dream calls. Finally I
determined to disregard her parting words, and write her. Georgia was
sure that I would get a severe answer, but Elitha's ready permission
made the letter easier to write. Weeks elapsed without a reply, and I
had about given up looking for it, when late in August, William, the
youngest Wilder brother, saddled his horse, and upon mounting, called
out,

"I'm off to Sacramento, Eliza, to bring you that long-expected letter.
It was misdirected, and is advertised in
The Sacramento Union's list
of uncalled-for mail."

He left me in a speculative mood, wondering if it was from grandma;
which of her many friends had written it for her; and if it was severe,
as predicted by Georgia. Great was my delight when the letter was
handed me, and I opened it and read:

Your letter of the fifteenth of June came duly to hand, giving me
great satisfaction in regard to your health, as well as keeping me
and grandfather in good memory.

I have perused the contents of your letter with great interest. I am
glad to learn that you enjoy a country life. We have sold lately
twelve cows, and are milking fifteen at present. You want to know
how Flower is coming on: had you not better come and see for
yourself? Hard feelings or ill will we have none against you; and
why should I not forgive little troubles that are past and gone by?

I know that you saw grandfather in Sacramento; he saw you and knew
you well too. Why did you not go and speak to him?

The roses you planted on Jacob's grave are growing beautifully, and
our garden looks well. Grandfather and myself enjoy good health, and
we wish you the same for all time to come. We give you our love, and
remain,

In parental affection,

MARY AND CHRISTIAN BRUNNER.

(Give our love also to Georgia.)

Georgia was as much gratified by the contents of the letter as I, and
we each sent an immediate answer, addressed to grandpa and grandma,
expressing our appreciation of their forgiving words, regret for
trouble and annoyances we had caused them, thanks for their past
kindness, and the hope that they would write to us again when
convenient. We referred to our contentment in our new home, and avoided
any words which they might construe as a wish to return.

There was no long waiting for the second letter, nor mistake in
address. It was dated just three days prior to the first anniversary of
our leaving Sonoma, and here speaks for itself:

SONOMA, Sept. 11, 1856

GEORGIA AND ELIZA DONNER.

MY DEAR CHILDREN:

Your two letters dated August thirty-first reached us in due
season.

We were glad to hear from you, and it is our wish that you do well.
Whenever you are disposed to come to us again our doors shall be
open to you, and we will rejoice to see you.

We are glad to see that you acknowledge your errors, for it shows
good hearts, and the right kind of principles; for you should always
remember that in showing respect to old age you are doing yourself
honor, and those who know you will respect you. All your cows are
doing well.

I am inclined to think that the last letter we wrote you, you did
not get. We mention this to show you that we always write to you.

Your mother desires to know if you have forgotten the time when she
used to have you sleep with her, each in one arm, showing the great
love and care she had for you; she remembers, and can't forget.

Your grandfather informs you that he still keeps the butcher shop,
and bar-room, and that scarcely a day passes without his thinking of
you. He still feels very bad that you did not, before going away,
come to him and say "Good-bye grandfather." He forgives you,
however, and hopes you will come and see him. When you get this
letter you must write.

Yours affectionately,

CHRISTIAN BRUNNER,

MARY BRUNNER.

Letters following the foregoing assured us that grandma had become
fully satisfied that the stories told her by Mrs. Stein were untrue.
She freely acknowledged that she was miserable and forlorn without us,
and begged us to return to the love and trust which awaited us at our
old home. This, however, we could not do.

Before the close of the Winter, Frances and Georgia began preparations
for boarding school in Sacramento, and I being promised like
opportunities for myself later, wrote all about them to grandma,
trusting that this course would convince her that we were permanently
separated from her, and that Elitha and her husband had definite plans
for our future. I received no response to this, but Georgia's first
communication from school contained the following paragraph:

I saw Sallie Keiberg last week, who told me that her mother had a
letter from the old lady (Grandma Brunner) five weeks ago. A man
brought it. And that the old lady had sent us by him some jewellery,
gold breast-pins, earrings, and wristlets. He stopped at the William
Tell Hotel. And that is all they know about him and the presents.

Time passed. Not a word had come to me from Sonoma in months, when
Benjamin handed me the Union, and with horror I read the headlines to
which he pointed: "TRAGEDY IN SONOMA. CHRISTIAN BRUNNER, AN OLD
RESIDENT, SLAYS HIS OWN NEPHEW!"

From the lurid details published, I learned that the Brunners had asked
this nephew to come to them, and had sent him money to defray his
expenses from Switzerland to California. Upon his arrival in Sonoma, he
had settled himself in the proffered home, and at once begun a life of
extravagance, at the expense of his relatives. He was repeatedly warned
against trifling with their affection, and wasting their hard-earned
riches. Then patience ceased, and he was forbidden the house of his
uncle.

Meanwhile, his aunt became seriously ill, and the young man visited her
secretly, and prevailed upon her to give him, in the event of her
death, certain cattle and other property which stood in her name. She,
however, recovered health; and he in the presence of his uncle,
insisted that she had given him the property outright, and he wanted
possession. This made trouble between the old couple, and the wife took
refuge with friends in San Francisco. The night after her departure,
the husband entered his own room and found the nephew in his bed.
Thoroughly enraged, he ordered him up and out of his sight, and was
insolently told by the young man that he was owner of that property and
in rightful possession of the same. At this, his uncle snatched his
pistol from the table at the bedside, and fired the fatal shot.

This almost incredible news was so harrowing that I could scarcely
think of anything, except grandpa chained in a prison cell, grandma in
hiding away from home, and excited groups of people gathering about the
thoroughfares of Sonoma discussing the tragedy.

I was not sorry that at this time an epidemic of measles broke out in
Sacramento, and Georgia became one of its early victims. This brought
both girls back to the ranch, and during Georgia's convalescence, we
had many serious talks about the Brunners' troubles. We wrote to
grandma, but received no answer, and could only wait to learn what
would be done with grandpa. He was arraigned and held; but the date set
for trial was not fixed before Benjamin took Frances and Georgia to
Benicia, to enter the September term of St. Catherine's Convent School.

Upon Ben's return, I observed that he and Elitha were keeping from me
some mysterious but pleasurable secret. It came out a few days later
when Elitha began making a black and a white uniform which would fit no
one except me. When ready to try them on, she informed me that we would
have to sew early and late, that I might be ready to enter the convent
by the first of October, and thereby reap the benefit of the
institution's established custom—"That when more than two of a family
become pupils the same term, the third one shall be received free of
charge (except incidentals) with the understanding that the family thus
favored shall exert its influence toward bringing an additional pupil
into the school."

Friends who had religious prejudices advised Ben against putting us
under Catholic influence, but he replied good-naturedly: "The school is
excellent, the girls are Protestants, and I am not afraid. Besides, I
have told them all the horrible and uncanny stories that I have heard
about convents, and they will not care to meddle with anything outside
of the prescribed course of study."

He was twenty years older than I, and had such conservative and
dignified ways, that I often stood in awe of him. So when he let the
convent gate close behind us with a loud click and said, "Now, you are
a goner," I scanned his face apprehensively, but seeing nothing very
alarming, silently followed him through the massive door which was in
charge of a white-robed nun of the Dominican order.

ST. CATHERINE'S CONVENT AT BENICIA, CALIFORNIA

CHAPEL, ST. CATHERINE'S CONVENT

Presently Mother Mary Superior and my two sisters came to us in the
reception room and my brother deposited the fund for my school
incidentals, and after a brief conversation, departed. The preparations
in connection with my coming had been so rapidly carried out that I had
had little time in which to question or anticipate what my reception at
the convent might be. Now, however, Mother Mary, with open watch in
hand, stood before me, saying,

"Your sister Georgia cried twice as long as expected when she came;
still I will allow you the regular five minutes."

"I don't wish to cry," was my timid response.

"But," she insisted, "you must shed a few entrance tears to—" Before
she finished her sentence, and without thinking that it would be
overreaching a stranger's privilege, I impulsively threw my arms around
her neck, laid my cheek against hers, and whispered, "Please don't make
me cry."

She drew me closer to her, and her lips touched my forehead, and she
said, "No, child, you need not." Then she bade me go with my sisters
and become acquainted with my new surroundings.

I was at once made to feel that I was welcome to every advantage and
privilege accorded to Frances and Georgia. The following Monday, soon
after breakfast, I slipped unobserved from the recreation room and made
my way to the children's dormitory, where Sister Mary Joseph was busily
engaged. I told her that I had come to help make beds and that I hoped
she would also let me wash or wipe the silverware used at the noon and
evening meals. She would not accept my services until she became
thoroughly satisfied that I had not offered them because I felt that I
was expected to do so, but because I earnestly desired to do whatever I
could in return for the educational and cultural advantages so freely
tendered me by the convent.

By the end of the week I knew the way to parts of the buildings not
usually open to pupils. Up in the clothes room, I found Sister Mary
Frances, and on assuring her that I only wanted occupation for part of
my leisure time, she let me help her to sort and distribute the
clothing of the small girls, on Saturdays. Sister Rose let me come to
her in the kitchen an hour on Sundays, and other light tasks were
assigned me at my request.

Then did I eat the bread of independence, take a wholesome interest in
my studies, and enjoy the friends I gained!

My seat in the refectory was between my sister Georgia and Miss
Cayitana Payñe, a wealthy Spanish girl. Near neighbors were the two
Estudillo sisters, who were prouder of their Castilian lineage than of
the princely estate which they had inherited through it. To them I was
in a measure indebted for pleasing conversation at table. My abundant
glossy black hair and brunette type had first attracted their
attention, and suggested the probability of Spanish blood in my veins.
After they had learned otherwise, those points of resemblance still
awoke in them an unobtrusive interest in my welfare. I became aware of
its depth one evening in the recreation room while Georgia was home
for a month on sick leave.

I was near Miss Dolores Estudillo, and overheard her say quietly to her
sister, in Spanish, "Magdalena, see how care-free the young girl at my
side seems tonight. The far-away look so often in her eyes leads me to think
that our dear Lord has given her many crosses to bear. Her hands show
marks of hard work and her clothing is inexpensive, yet she appears of
good birth and when I can throw pleasure in her way, I mean to do it."

Whereupon Miss Magdalena turned to me and asked, "Do you live in
Sacramento, Miss Donner?"

"No, I live on a ranch twenty miles from the city."

"Do your parents like it there?"

"I have no parents, they died when I was four years old."

She did not ask another question, nor did she know that I had caught
the note of sympathy in her apology as she turned away. From that time
on, she and her coterie of young friends showed me many delicate
attentions.

While still a new pupil, I not infrequently met Sister Dominica resting
at the foot of the steps after her walk in the sunshine, and with a
gracious, "Thank you," she would permit me to assist her up the flight
of stairs leading to her apartment. Bowed by age, and wasted by
disease, she was patiently awaiting the final summons. I became deeply
interested in her before I learned that this wan bit of humanity was
the once winsome daughter of Commandante Arguello, and the heroine of
a pathetic romance of Spanish California's day.[17]

The hero was Rezanoff, an officer of high repute, sent by Russia in
1806 to inspect its establishment at the port of Sitka, Alaska. Finding
the colony there in almost destitute condition, he had embarked on the
first voyage of a Russian vessel to the port of San Francisco,
California. There being no commercial treaty between the two ports,
Rezanoff made personal appeal for help to Governor Arrillago, and later
to Commandante Arguello. After many difficulties and delays, he
succeeded in obtaining the sorely needed supplies.

Meanwhile, the young officer frequently met in her father's house the
vivacious Doña Concepcion Arguello, and Cupid soon joined their hearts
with an immortal chain.

After their betrothal, Rezanoff hastened back to the destitute colony
with supplies. Then he sped on toward St. Petersburg, buoyant with a
lover's hope of obtaining his sovereign's sanction to his marriage, and
perhaps an appointment to Spain, which would enable him to give his
bride a distinguished position in the country of her proud ancestors.
Alas, death overtook the lover en route across the snows of Siberia.

When Doña Concepcion learned of her bereavement, her lamentations were
tearless, her sorrow inconsolable. She turned from social duties and
honors, and, clad in mourning weeds, devoted her time and means to the
poor and the afflicted, among whom she became known and idolized as
"the beautiful angel in black." After the death of her parents, she
endowed St. Catherine's Convent with her inheritance, took the vows of
the Dominican nun, and the world saw her no more.

Early in her sorrow, she had prayed that death might come to her in the
season when the snow lay deep on Siberia's plain; and her prayer was
realized, for it was on a bleak winter morning that we pupils gathered
in silence around the breakfast table, knowing that Sister Dominica lay
upon her bier in the chapel.

The meal was nearly finished when Sister Amelda entered, and spoke to a
couple of the Spanish young ladies, who bowed and immediately withdrew.
As she came down the line selecting other Spanish friends of the dead,
she stopped beside me long enough to say:

"You also may go to her. You comforted her in life, and it is fitting
that you should be among those who keep the last watch, and that your
prayers mingle with theirs."

After her burial, which was consecrated by monastic rites, I returned
to the schoolroom with reverential memories of Sister Dominica, the
once "beautiful angel in black."

The school year closed in July, 1858, and I left the convent with
regret. The gentle, self-sacrificing conduct of the nuns had destroyed
the effect of the prejudicial stories I had heard against conventual
life. The tender, ennobling influences which had surrounded me had
been more impressive than any I had experienced during orphanhood, and
I dreaded what the noisy world might again have in store for me.

My sister Frances and William R. Wilder, who had been betrothed for
more than a year, and had kept their secret until we three returned
from the convent, were married November 24, 1858, and soon thereafter
moved to a pleasant home of their own on a farm adjoining Rancho de los
Cazadores. The following January, Georgia and I entered public school
in Sacramento, where we spent a year and a half in earnest and arduous
study.

Our school home in Sacramento was with friends who not only encouraged
our desire for knowledge, but made the acquirement pleasant. The head
of the house was Mr. William E. Chamberlain, cashier of D.O. Mills's
bank. His wife, Charlotte, was a contributor to
The Sacramento Union
and leading magazines. Their daughter, Miss Florence, taught in the
public schools; and their son, William E., Jr., was a high-school
student, preparing for Harvard.

In addition to their superior personal attainments, Mr. and Mrs.
Chamberlain, each—for they were cousins—had the distinction of being
first cousins to
Daniel Webster, and this fact also served to bring to
their home guests of note and culture. Georgia and I were too closely
occupied with lessons to venture often beyond the school-girl precinct,
but the intellectual atmosphere which pervaded the house, and the books
to which we had access, were of inestimable advantage. Furthermore, the
tuition fees required of non-resident pupils entitled them to choice
of district, and we fortunately had selected
Jefferson Grammar School,
No. 4, in charge of Mr. Henry A. White, one of the ablest educators in
the city.

Several resident families had also taken advantage of this privilege,
and elected to pay tuition and place their children under his
instruction, thus bringing together forty-nine energetic boys and girls
to whet each other's ambition and incite class rivalry. Among the
number were the five clever children of the
Hon. Tod Robinson; three
sons of
Judge Robert Robinson;
Colonel Zabriskie's pretty daughter
Annie; Banker Swift's stately
Margaret; General Redding's two sons; Dr.
Oatman's son Eugene;
beloved Nelly Upton, daughter of the editor of
The Sacramento Union;
Daniel Yost;
Agnes Toll, the sweet singer; and
Eliza Denison, my chum.

At the end of the term, The Daily Union closed its account of the
public examination of Jefferson Grammar School with the following
statement: "Among Mr. White's pupils are two young ladies, survivors of
the terrible disaster which befell the emigration of 1846 among the
snows of the California mountains."

Even this cursory reference was a matter of regret to Georgia and me.
We had entered school silent in regard to personal history, and did not
wish public attention turned toward ourselves even in an indirect way,
fearing it might lead to a revival of the false and sensational
accounts of the past, and we were not prepared to correct them, nor
willing they should be spread. Pursued by these fears, we returned to
the ranch, where Elitha and her three black-eyed little daughters
welcomed our home-coming and brightened our vacation.

Almost coincident, however, with the foregoing circumstance, Georgia
came into possession of
"What I Saw in California,"
by Edwin Bryant;
and we found that the book did contain many facts in connection with
our party's disaster, but they were so interwoven with wild rumors, and
the false and sensational statements quoted from The California Star,
that they proved nothing, yet gave to the untrue that appearance of
truth which is so difficult to correct.

The language employed in description seemed to us so coarse and brutal
that we could not forgive its injustice to the living, and to the
memory of the dead. We could but feel that had simple facts been
stated, there would have been no harrowing criticism on account of long
unburied corpses found in the lake cabins. Nor would the sight of
mutilated dead have suggested that the starving survivors had become
"gloating cannibals, preying on the bodies of their companions." Bare
facts would have shown that the living had become too emaciated, too
weak, to dig graves, or to lift or drag the dead up the narrow snow
steps, even had open graves awaited their coming. Aye, more, would have
shown conclusively that mutilation of the bodies of those who had
perished was never from choice, never cannibalistic, but dire
necessity's last resort to ease torturing hunger, to prevent loss of
reason, to save life. Loss of reason was more dreaded than death by
the starving protectors of the helpless.

Fair statements would also have shown that the First Relief reached the
camps with insufficient provision to meet the pressing needs of the
unfortunate. Consequently, it felt the urgency of haste to get as many
refugees as possible to Bear Valley before storms should gather and
delays defeat the purpose of its coming; that it divided what it could
conscientiously spare among those whom it was obliged to leave, cut
wood for the fires, and endeavored to give encouragement and hope to
the desponding, but did not remain long enough to remove or bury the
dead.

Each succeeding party actuated by like anxieties and precautions,
departed with its charges, leaving pitiable destitution behind; leaving
mournful conditions in camp,—conditions attributable as much to the
work of time and atmospheric agencies as to the deplorable expedients
to which the starving were again and again reduced.

With trembling hand Georgia turned the pages, from the sickening
details of the Star[18]
to the personal observations of Edwin Bryant,
who in returning to the United States in the Summer of 1847, crossed
the Sierra Nevadas with General Kearney and escort, reached the lake
cabins June 22, and wrote as follows:

A halt was called for the purpose of interring the remains. Near the
principal lake cabin I saw two bodies entire, except the abdomens
had been cut open and entrails extracted. Their flesh had been
either wasted by famine or evaporated by exposure to dry
atmosphere, and presented the appearance of mummies. Strewn around
the cabins were dislocated and broken skulls (in some instances
sawed asunder with care for the purpose of extracting the brains).
Human skeletons, in short, in every variety of mutilation. A more
appalling spectacle I never witnessed. The remains were, by order of
General Kearney, collected and buried under supervision of Major
Sword. They were interred in a pit dug in the centre of one of the
cabins for a cache. These melancholy duties to the dead being
performed, the cabins, by order of Major Sword, were fired and, with
everything surrounding them connected with the horrible and
melancholy tragedy, consumed.

The body of (Captain) George Donner
was found in his camp about
eight miles distant. He had been carefully laid out by his wife, and
a sheet was wrapped around the corpse. This sad office was probably
the last act she performed before visiting the camp of Keseberg. He
was buried by a party of men detailed for that purpose.

I knew the Donners well; their means in money and merchandise which
they had brought with them were abundant. Mr. Donner was a man of
about sixty, and was at the time of leaving the United States a
highly respectable citizen of Illinois, a farmer of independent
means. Mrs. Donner
was considerably younger than her husband, an
energetic woman of refined education.

After Georgia left me, I reopened the book, and pondered its
revelations, many of them new to us both; and most of them I marked for
later investigation.

Bryant found no human bones at Donner's camp. His description of that
camp was all-important, proving that my father's body had not been
mutilated, but lay in his mountain hut three long months, sacred as
when left by my little mother, who had watched over him to the pitiful
end, had closed his eyes, folded his arms across his breast, and
wrapped the burial sheet about his precious form. There, too, was
proof of his last resting-place, just as had been told me in sight of
Jakie's grave, by the Cherokee woman in Sonoma.

The book had also a copy of Colonel McKinstrey's
letter to the General
Relief Committee in San Francisco, reporting the return of the first
rescuers with refugees. In speaking of the destitution of the
unfortunates in camp, he used the following words sympathically:

When the party arrived at camp, it was obliged to guard the little
stock of provisions it had carried over the mountains on its back on
foot, for the relief of the poor beings, as they were in such a
starving condition that they would have immediately used up all the
little store. They even stole the buckskin strings from the party's
snowshoes and ate them.

I at once recognized this friendly paragraph as the one which had had
its kindness extracted, and been abbreviated and twisted into that
cruel taunt which I had heard in my childhood from the lips of
"Picayune Butler."

A careful study of Bryant's work increased my desire to sift that of
Thornton, for I had been told that it not only contained the "Fallon
Diary," but lengthier extracts from the Star, and I wanted to compare
and analyze those details which had been published as
"Thrilling Events in California History."
I was unable to procure the book then, but
resolved to do so when opportunity should occur. Naturally, we who see
history made, are solicitous that it be accurately recorded, especially
when it vitally concerns those near to us.

Photograph by Lynwood Abbott. THE CROSS AT DONNER LAKE

Shortly before school reopened, Georgia and I spent the day with cousin
Frances E. Bond; and in relating to her various incidents of our life,
we spoke of the embarrassment we had felt in class the day that Mr.
White asked every pupil whose ancestors had fought in the war of the
American Revolution to rise, and Georgia and I were the only ones who
remained seated. My cousin regarded us a moment and then said:

"Your Grandfather Eustis, although a widow's only son, and not yet
sixteen years of age, enlisted when the Revolutionary War began. He was
a sentinel at Old South Church, and finally, a prisoner aboard the
Count d'Estang."

She would have stopped there, but we begged for all she knew about our
mother's people, so she continued, mingling advice with information:

"I would rather that you should not know the difference between their
position in life and your own; yet, if you must know it, the Eustis and
the Wheelwright families, from whom you are descended, are among the
most substantial and influential of New England. Their reputation,
however, is not a prop for you to lean on. They are on the Atlantic
coast, you on the Pacific; so your future depends upon your own merit
and exertions."

This revelation of lineage, nevertheless, was an added incentive to
strive for higher things; an inheritance more enduring than our little
tin box and black silk stockings which had belonged to mother.

An almost indescribable joy was mine when, at a gathering of the
school children to do honor to the citizens who had inaugurated the
system of public instruction in Sacramento, I beheld on the platform
Captain John A. Sutter. Memories both painful and grateful were evoked.
It was he who had first sent food to the starving travellers in the
Sierra Nevada Mountains. It was he who had laid his hand on my head,
when a forlorn little waif at the Fort, tenderly saying, "Poor little
girl, I wish I could give back what you have lost!"

To me, Captain Sutter had long been the embodiment of all that was good
and grand; and now I longed to touch his hand and whisper to him
gratitude too sacred for strangers' ears. But the opportunity was
withheld until riper years.

During our last term at school, Georgia's health was so improved that
my life was more free of cares and aglow with fairer promises. Miss
Kate Robinson and I were rivals for school honors, and I studied as I
never had studied before, for in the history, physiology, and rhetoric
classes, she pressed me hard. At the close of the session the record
showed a tie. Neither of us would accept determination by lot, and we
respectfully asked the Honorable Board of Education to withhold the
medal for that year.

About this time Georgia and I enjoyed a rare surprise. On his return
from business one day, Mr. Chamberlain announced that a
distinguished-appearing young lawyer,
S.O. Houghton by name, had
stopped at the bank that afternoon, to learn our address and say that
he would call in the evening. We, knowing that he was the husband of
our "little cousin Mary," were anxious to meet him and to hear of her,
whom we had not seen since our journey across the snow. He came that
evening, and told us of the cozy home in San Jose to which he had taken
his young wife, and of her wish that we visit them the coming July or
August.

Although letters had passed between us, up to this time we had known
little of Mary's girlhood life. After we parted, in 1847, she was
carried through to San Francisco, then called Yerba Buena, where her
maimed foot was successfully treated by the surgeon of the United
States ship Portsmouth. The citizens of that place purchased and
presented to her the one hundred vara lot Number 38, and the lot
adjoining to her brother George. Mr. Reed
was appointed her guardian
and given charge of her apportionment of funds realized from the sale
of goods brought from her father's tents. She became a member of the
Reed household in San Jose, and her life must have been cast in
pleasant lines, for she always spoke of Mr. and Mrs. Reed with filial
affection. Moreover, her brother had been industrious and prosperous,
and had contributed generously to her comfort and happiness.

Some weeks later, we took
Mr. Houghton's report home to Elitha. We also
showed her a recent letter from Mary, sparkling with bright
anticipations—anticipations never to be realized; for we girls were
hardly settled on the ranch before a letter came from cousin George
Donner, dated Sacramento, June 20, 1860. From this we learned that he
had on that day been summoned to the bedside of his dying sister, and
had come from his home on Putah Creek as fast as horse could carry him,
yet had failed to catch the bay steamer; and while waiting for the next
boat, was writing to us who could best understand his state of mind.

Next, a note from San Jose informed us that Mrs. Mary M. Houghton died
June 21, 1860, leaving a namesake, a daughter two weeks old, and that
her brother had reached there in time for the funeral.

Of the seven Donners who had survived the disaster, she was the first
called by death, and we deeply mourned her loss, and grieved because
another little Mary was motherless. The following August, Mr. Houghton
made his first visit to Rancho de los Cazadores, and with fatherly
pride, showed the likeness of his little girl, and promised to keep us
all in touch with her by letter.

Mr. Houghton was closely identified with pioneer affairs, and we had
many friends in common, especially among officers and soldiers of the
Mexican War. He had enlisted in Company A of Stevenson's Regiment of
New York Volunteers when barely eighteen years of age; and sailed with
it from his native State on the twenty-sixth of September, 1846. After
an eventful voyage by way of Cape Horn, the good ship Loo Choo, which
bore him hither, cast anchor in the Bay of San Francisco, March 26,
1847, about the time the Third Relief was bringing us little girls
over the mountains. His company being part of the detachment ordered to
Mexico under Colonel Burton, he went at once into active service, was
promoted through intermediate grades, and appointed lieutenant, and
adjutant on the staff of Colonel Burton, before his twentieth year.
Following an honorable discharge at the close of the war, and a year's
exciting experiences in the gold fields, he settled in San Jose in
November, 1849, then the capital city. His knowledge of the Spanish and
French languages fitting him specially therefor, he turned his
attention to legislative and municipal matters. As clerk of the Senate
Judiciary Committee of the first session of the California Legislature,
he helped to formulate statutes for enactment, they being promulgated
in Spanish as well as English at that time. During the period between
1851 and 1860 he held several official positions, among them that of
president of the City Council; and on his twenty-fifth birthday he was
elected Mayor of San Jose. Meanwhile he had organized the Eagle Guard,
one of the first independent military companies in the State, and had
also been successively promoted from adjutant to ordnance officer, with
the rank of lieutenant-colonel, on Major-General Halleck's staff of the
State Militia. Moreover, he had completed the study of law in the
office of Judge W.T. Wallace, been admitted to the bar, and was now
actively engaged in the practice of his profession.

CHAPTER XXXVI

NEWS OF THE BRUNNERS—LETTERS FROM GRANDPA.

More than two years had elapsed since we had heard directly from
Sonoma, when, on the day before Thanksgiving, 1860,
Judge Robert Robinson
and wife, of Sacramento, came to the ranch, and he, in his
pleasing way, announced that he and Mrs. Robinson had a little story to
tell, and a message to deliver, which would explain why they had
arrived unexpectedly to spend the national holiday with us. Then
seating himself, he bowed to his wife, and listened in corroborative
silence while she related the following incident:

"Last Summer when the Judge went on his circuit, he took the carriage,
and I accompanied him on his travels. One day we stopped for dinner at
the stage station between Sonoma and Santa Rosa. After we had
registered, the proprietor approached us, saying: 'I see you are from
Sacramento, and wonder if you know anything about a couple of young
girls by the name of Downie, who spent some time there in the public
school?' He seemed disappointed when we replied, 'We know Donners, but
not Downies.' 'Well,' he continued, 'they are strangers to me; but I am
interested in them on account of their former connection with an
unfortunate little old German woman who frequently comes in on the
stage that runs between Sonoma and Santa Rosa. She carries their
pictures in her hand-bag and tells a touching story about her happiness
when they lived with her.' Just then the stage stopped before the door,
and he, looking out, exclaimed, 'Why, she is among the passengers
to-day! With your permission, I'll bring her to you.'

"He introduced her as Mrs. Brunner, told her where we were from, and
asked her to show us the picture of her little girls. After shaking
hands with us, she took the seat offered, and nervously drew from her
reticule a handsomely inlaid case, which she opened and handed to us.
An expression of pride and tenderness lighted her worn features as
Judge and I at once exclaimed, pointing to one and then the other,
'Why, this is Georgia, and this, Eliza Donner. We know them well and
call them "our girls" in Sacramento!'"

"She sprang from her seat, and stood with one hand on Judge's shoulder,
and the other on mine, saying earnestly,

"'Yes! You do know my children? Be they well, and doing well?'

"We had to talk fast in order to answer all her questions, and a number
of listeners drew nearer and were considerably affected as the poor old
soul said, 'Please shake hands with me again for them, and tell them
that you talked with their old Grandma Brunner, that loves them now
just the same as when they was little.'

"Judge and I assured her that we would deliver her messages in person,
as soon as we should get time to look you up. After dinner we saw her
reseated in the stage, and the black silk reticule containing the
picture was upon her lap as the stage carried her homeward."

We learned from them further that grandpa had been convicted of
manslaughter and sentenced to San Quentin Prison for a term of eleven
years, and that grandma had been granted a divorce, and awarded all the
property, but was having great trouble because it had since become
involved and was being frittered away in litigation.

The information given by the Robinsons increased our uneasiness for our
trouble-worn friends. Since the tragedy, Georgia and I had often spoken
of them to one another, but to no one else. We knew that few could
understand them as we did, and we refrained from exposing them to
unnecessary criticism. Anxious as we were to comfort them, it was not
in our power to do more than endeavor again to reach them by letter.
The first was despatched to grandma at Sonoma, the day after the
departure of our guests; and shortly before Christmas I posted one to
grandpa. The former was answered quickly, and so pathetically that
brother Ben offered to take us to Sonoma for a visit in the early
Spring and then to see what could be done for grandma.

The letter to grandpa did not reach him until January 27, 1861, but his
reply left San Quentin by Wells-Fargo Express on the twenty-eighth of
January. It was a brave letter, closing with the following mystifying
paragraph:

Though I may be confined by prison walls, I wish those dear to me to
be happy and joyous as they can, and I trust in God to open a way
for me out of here, when I can see you all; which will make us all
very happy.

His next communication contained a thrilling surprise which cleared the
lurking mystery of his former letter, and expressed such joyous
appreciation of his regained privileges that I once more quote his own
words, from the letter yellowed by age, which lies before me.

SONOMA, March 25, 1861

DEAR ELIZA AND GEORGIA:

Your kind and friendly letter reached me about ten days ago, and I
would have responded to the same right away, but waited a few days,
so that I could give you some good news, over which you, my dear
little girls, will surely rejoice, as you take so much interest in
everything which myself concerns. This news is that I am free again.

Last Tuesday I received, through the influence of friends, from the
Governor of the State of California, a full pardon, and am again in
Sonoma; and as soon as I have my business affairs in such a way
settled that I can leave for a week or two, I will come up and see
you. I have much to tell you which you will better understand
through a personal interview than by writing.

Yours friendly,

C. BRUNNER

Georgia and I felt this news was almost too good to be true. We
wondered how soon he would come to see us; wondered also, if he and
grandma had met, and were glad that we had not taken the side of either
against the other.

"What next?" was the pertinent question uppermost in our minds. We
found the answer in The Sacramento Daily Union, early in April, under
title of "Romance in Real Life." After a brief review of the troubles
of the Brunners, and reference to their divorcement, the article
announced their recent remarriage.

This gratifying circumstance made our long intended trip to Sonoma
unnecessary, especially since the reunited couple seemed to have
retained the sympathy and loyalty of those who had known them in their
days of prosperity and usefulness.

CHAPTER XXXVII

ARRIVAL OF THE FIRST PONY EXPRESS.

I happened to be in Sacramento on the thirteenth day of April, 1861,
and found the city full of irrepressible excitement. Men on gayly
caparisoned horses galloping hither and thither, unfurled flags, and a
general air of expectancy on eager faces everywhere betokened an
occasion of rare moment. At times hats were swung aloft and cheers rang
out tumultuously, only to be hushed by the disappointing murmur, "Not
yet." But an instant's quiet, and there was a mad rush of the populace
toward Sutter's Fort; then again enthusiasm died, and the crowds ebbed
back up J Street, which, some eight or ten feet higher than any other
street in the city, extended straight as an arrow from the fort to
where the bay steamer lightly hugged the water front, puffing and
impatient to be off to San Francisco.

So the anxious waiting continued until the day was well on to its
close, when suddenly, vociferous cheers again rent the air, and this
time knew no cessation. What a din! With leap and outcry, all faced
Sutter's Fort. That was a spectacle to be remembered.

Pony! The pony, hurrah, hurrah! We see a dark speck in the distance.
It grows, as up J Street it comes. Now, the pony foams before us; now,
swift as the wind, it is gone. It passes reception committee, passes
escort. It reaches the water front; down the gang-plank it dashes; the
band plays, the whistle blows, the bell rings, the steamer catches the
middle of the stream and is off, leaving a trail of sparks and smoke in
the twilight, and bearing away the first
"Pony Express," memorable in
history.

The baffling problem is solved; the dream of years is realized;
expeditious mail service with the East is an accomplished fact.

No wonder the people cheered! It was a gigantic scheme, well conceived,
magnificently executed. Think of it, a stretch of two thousand miles of
mountain wild and desert plain covered in twelve days!

How was it done? Horses were tested and riders selected by weight and
power of endurance. The latter were boys in years—Bill Cody, the
youngest, said to be only fourteen years of age. The pouch was light,
its contents were limited—but how gladly five dollars per letter was
paid for those precious missives.

Every detail was carefully arranged. The first mount left St. Joseph,
Missouri, April 2; relay camps were established ten miles apart, with a
horse ever in readiness for instantaneous exchange, and a fresh rider,
mounted for the next run, was waiting at each successive hundred-mile
station along the entire route.

Small wonder those pioneers were beside themselves with enthusiastic
excitement. The minds of many reverted to personal experiences with ox
team, or jogtrot of horses or mule train. Here was the Overland Stage
outdone; even the speed with which Monk Hanks brought Horace Greeley
over the mountains was at discount.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

WAR AND RUMORS OF WAR—MARRIAGE—SONOMA REVISITED.

The Summer of 1861, now well advanced, was rife with war and rumors of
war, and foreshadowings of coming events. The old and the young were
flushed with patriotism, each eager to help his country's cause. I,
remembering grandma's training, was ready to give my services to
hospital work. Earnest as was this desire, however, I was dissuaded
from taking definite steps in that direction by those who knew that my
slender physique and girlish appearance would defeat my purpose before
the board of appointing physicians. Moreover, Mr. Houghton's visits and
frequent letters were changing my earlier plans for the future, and
finally led to my naming the tenth of October, 1861, as our wedding
day.

The ceremony was solemnized by the Rev. J.A. Benton, of Sacramento. The
event is also noteworthy as being the occasion of the first reunion of
the five Donner sisters since their parting at Sutter's Fort in June,
1847. Georgia's place was by my side, while Elitha, Leanna, and Frances
each grouped with husband and children in front among friends, who had
come to witness the plighting of vows between my hero and me. Not
until I had donned my travelling suit, and my little white Swiss
wedding dress was being packed, did I fully realize that the days of
inseparable companionship between Georgia and me were past; She had
long been assured that in my new home a welcome would be ever ready for
her, yet she had thoughtfully answered, "No, I am not needed there, and
I feel that I am needed here."

Nature's wedding gift to us was a week of glorious weather, and its
first five days we passed in San Francisco, the bustling, historic
city, which I knew so well, yet had never seen before. Then we boarded
the afternoon boat up the bay, expecting to spend the evening and
following morning in Sonoma with Grandpa and Grandma Brunner, but the
vessel failed to reach Lakeside Landing in time to connect with the
northbound coach. This mischance necessitated our staying overnight at
the only hostelry in the place.

The cry, "All aboard for Sonoma!" hurried us from the table next
morning, and on reaching the sidewalk, we learned that the proprietor
of the hotel had bespoken the two best seats in the coach for us.

I was too happy to talk until after we crossed the
Sonoma River, shaded
by grand old oak, sycamore, and laurel trees, and then onward, I was
too happy to remain silent. Before us lay the valley which brought back
memories of my childhood, and I was in a mood to recall only the
brightest, as we sped on to our destination. My companion shared my
delight and gave heed to each scene I called to his attention.

The coach stopped in front of the hotel, and we alighted upon almost
the same spot from which I had climbed into the carriage to leave
Sonoma six years earlier. But, oh, how changed was everything! One
sweeping glance at the little town revealed the fact that it had passed
its romantic age and lost its quickening spirit. Closed were the homes
of the old Spanish families; gone were the caballeros and the
bright-eyed señoritas; grass-grown was the highway to the mines; the
flagstaff alone remained flushed with its old-time dignity and
importance. In subdued mood, I stepped into the parlor until our names
should be registered. When my husband returned, I said,

"The carpet on this floor, the chairs in this room, and the pictures on
these walls were in place in grandma's home when I left her—perhaps
she is no longer living."

He left me again to make inquiry concerning those whom we had come to
see, and ascertained that the Brunners had remarried for the purpose of
facilitating the readjustment of their property rights, and of rescuing
them from the hands of a scheming manager, who, with his family, was
now living on the estate, and caring for grandma, but would not permit
grandpa to enter the house.

After sending a messenger to find grandpa, I led the way to the open
door of the old home, then slipped aside to let my husband seek
admission. He rapped.

GENERAL VALLEJO'S CARRIAGE, BUILT IN ENGLAND IN 1832

GENERAL VALLEJO'S OLD JAIL

I heard a side door open, uneven footsteps in the hall, and him saying
quietly, "I think the old lady herself is coming, and you had better
meet her alone." I crossed the threshold, opened my arms, and uttered
the one word, "Grandma!"

She came and rested her head against my bosom and I folded my arms
about her just as she had enfolded me when I went to her a lonely child
yearning for love. She stirred, then drew back, looked up into my face
and asked, "Who be you?"

Touched by her wistful gaze, I exclaimed, "Grandma, don't you know me?"

"Be you Eliza?" she asked, and when I had given answer, she turned from
me in deepest emotion, murmuring, "No, no, it can't be my little
Eliza!" She would have tottered away had I not supported her to a seat
in the well-remembered living room and caressed her until she looked up
through her tears, saying, "When you smile, you be my little Eliza, but
when you look serious, I don't know you."

She inquired about Georgia, and how I came to be there without her.
Then she bade me call my husband, and thanked him for bringing me to
her. Forgetting all the faults and shortcomings that once had troubled
her sorely, she spoke of my busy childhood and the place I had won in
the affections of all who knew me.

A tender impulse took her from us a moment. She returned, saying, "Now,
you must not feel bad when you see what I have in the hand behind me,"
and drawing it forth continued, "This white lace veil which I bought at
Sutter's Fort when your mother's things were sold at auction, is to
cover my face when I am dead; and this picture of us three is to be
buried in the coffin with me. I want your husband to see how you looked
when you was little."

She appeared proudly happy; but a flame of embarrassment burned my
cheeks, as she handed him the picture wherein I showed to such
disadvantage, with the question, "Now, doesn't she look lovely?" and
heard his affirmative reply.

Upon the clock lay a broken toy which had been mine, and in childlike
ecstasy she spoke of it and of others which she had kept ever near her.
When invited to go to luncheon with us, she brought first her bonnet,
next her shawl, for me to hold while she should don her best apparel
for the occasion. Instead of going directly, she insisted on choosing
the longer road to town, that we might stop at Mrs. Lewis's to see if
she and her daughter Sallie would recognize me. Frequently as we walked
along, she hastened in advance, and then faced about on the road to
watch us draw near. When we reached Mrs. Lewis's door, she charged me
not to smile, and clapped her hands when both ladies appeared and
called me by name.

As we were taking leave, an aged horseman drew rein at the gate and
dismounted, and Mrs. Lewis looking up, exclaimed, "Why, there is Mr.
Brunner!"

It did not take me long to meet him part way down the walk, nor did I
shrink from the caress he gave me, nor know how much joy and pain that
meeting evoked in him, even after he turned to Mr. Houghton saying
fervently, "Do not be angry because I kiss your wife and put my arms
around her, for she is my child come back to me. I helped raise her,
and we learned her to do all kinds of work, what is useful, and she was
my comfort child in my troubles."

My husband's reply seemed to dispel the recollections which had made
the reunion distressing, and grandpa led his horse and walked and
talked with us until we reached the turn where he bade us leave him
while he disposed of Antelope preparatory to joining us at luncheon.
Proceeding, we observed an increasing crowd in front of the hotel,
massed together as if in waiting. As we drew nearer, a way was opened
for our passage, and friends and acquaintances stepped forth, shook
hands with me and desired to be introduced to my husband. It was
apparent that the message which we had sent to grandpa early in the
day, stating the hour we would be at the hotel, had spread among the
people, who were now assembled for the purpose of meeting us.

Strangers also were among them, for I heard the whispered answer many
times, "Why, that is little Eliza Donner, who used to live with the
Brunners, and that is Mr. Houghton, her husband—they can only stay
until two o'clock." The hotel table, usually more than ample to
accommodate its guests, was not nearly large enough for all who
followed to the dining-room, so the smiling host placed another table
across the end for many who had intended to lunch at home that day.

Meantime, our little party was seated, with Mr. Houghton at the head of
the table, I at his right; grandpa opposite me, and grandma at my
right. She was supremely happy, would fold her hands in her lap and
say, "If you please," and "Thank you," as I served her; and I was
grateful that she claimed my attention, for grandpa's lips were mute.

He strove for calm, endeavoring to eat that he might the better conceal
the unbidden tears which coursed down his cheeks. Not until we reached
a secluded retreat for our farewell talk, did his emotion express
itself in words. Grasping my husband's hand he said:

"My friend, I must leave you. I broke bread and tasted salt with you,
but I am too heartsick to visit, or to say good-bye. You bring back my
child, a bride, and I have no home to welcome her in, no wedding feast,
or happiness to offer. I must see and talk with her in the house of
strangers, and it makes me suffer more than I can bear! But before I
go, I want you both to make me the promise that you will always work
together, and have but one home, one purse, one wish in life, so that
when you be old, you will not have to walk separately like we do. You
will not have bitter thoughts and blame one another."

Here grandma interrupted meekly, "I know I did wrong, but I did not
mean to, and I be sorry."

The pause which followed our given promise afforded me the opportunity
to clasp their withered hands together between mine, and gain from
grandpa an earnest pledge that he would watch over and be kind to her,
who had married him when he was poor and in ill health; who had toiled
for him through the long years of his convalescence; who had been the
power behind the throne, his best aid and counsellor, until time had
turned her back in its tide, and made her a child again.

My husband followed him from the room to bestow the sympathy and
encouragement which a strong man can give to a desponding one.

When the carriage was announced, which would take us to Benicia in time
to catch the Sacramento steamer to San Francisco, I tied on grandma's
bonnet, pinned her shawl around her shoulders, and told her that we
would take her home before proceeding on our way, but she crossed her
hands in front and artlessly whispered:

"No; I'd like to stay in town a while to talk with friends; but I thank
you just the same, and shall not forget that I am to go to you, after
you be settled in the new home, and his little daughter has learned to
call you 'mother.'"

We left her standing on the hotel piazza, smiling and important among
the friends who had waited to see us off; but grandpa was nowhere in
sight.

The steamer was at the landing when we reached Benicia so we hurriedly
embarked and found seats upon the deck overlooking the town. As the
moonlight glistened on the white spray which encircled our departing
boat, the sound of the Angelus came softly, sweetly, prayerfully over
the water; and I looking up and beyond, saw the glimmering lights of
Saint Catherine's Convent, fitting close to scenes of my childhood, its
silver-toned bells cheering my way to long life, honors, and many
blessings!

APPENDIX

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding
small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds
He all.

FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU.

APPENDIX I

ARTICLES PUBLISHED IN The California Star—STATISTICS OF THE
PARTY—NOTES OF AGUILLA GLOVER—EXTRACT FROM THORNTON—RECOLLECTIONS OF
JOHN BAPTISTE TRUBODE.

In honor to the State that cherishes the landmark; in justice to
history which is entitled to the truth; in sympathetic fellowship with
those who survived the disaster; and in reverent memory of those who
suffered and died in the snow-bound camps of the Sierra Nevadas, I
refute the charges of cruelty, selfishness, and inhumanity which have
been ascribed to the Donner Party.

In this Appendix I set forth some of the unwarranted statements to
which frequent reference has been made in the foregoing pages, that
they may be examined and analyzed, and their utter unreliability
demonstrated by comparison with established facts and figures. These
latter data, for the sake of brevity, are in somewhat statistical form.
A few further incidents, which I did not learn of or understand until
long after they occurred, are also related.

A more shocking scene cannot be imagined than was witnessed by the
party of men who went to the relief of the unfortunate emigrants in
the California Mountains. The bones of those who had died and been
devoured by the miserable ones that still survived were around their
tents and cabins; bodies of men, women, and children with half the
flesh torn from them lay on every side. A woman sat by the side of
the body of her dead husband cutting out his tongue; the heart she
had already taken out, broiled, and eaten. The daughter was seen
eating the father; and the mother, that [viz. body] of her
children; children, that of father and mother. The emaciated, wild,
and ghastly appearance of the survivors added to the horror of it.
Language can not describe the awful change that a few weeks of dire
suffering had wrought in the minds of the wretched and pitiable
beings. Those who one month before would have shuddered and sickened
at the thought of eating human flesh, or of killing their companions
and relatives to preserve their own lives, now looked upon the
opportunity the acts afforded them of escaping the most dreadful of
deaths as providential interference in their behalf.

Calculations were coldly made, as they sat around their gloomy camp
fires, for the next succeeding meals. Various expedients were
devised to prevent the dreadful crime of murder, but they finally
resolved to kill those who had least claims to longer existence.
Just at this moment some of them died, which afforded the rest
temporary relief. Some sank into the arms of death cursing God for
their miserable fate, while the last whisperings of others were
prayers and songs of praise to the Almighty. After the first few
deaths, but the one all-absorbing thought of individual
self-preservation prevailed. The fountains of natural affection
were dried up. The chords that once vibrated with connubial,
parental, and filial affection were torn asunder, and each one
seemed resolved, without regard to the fate of others, to escape
from impending calamity.

So changed had the emigrants become that when the rescuing party
arrived with food, some of them cast it aside, and seemed to prefer
the putrid human flesh that still remained. The day before the party
arrived, one emigrant took the body of a child about four years of
age in bed with him and devoured the whole before morning; and the
next day he ate another about the same age, before noon.

This article, one of the most harrowing to be found in print, spread
through the early mining-camps, and has since been quoted by historians
and authors as an authentic account of scenes and conduct witnessed by
the first relief corps to Donner Lake. It has since furnished style and
suggestion for other nerve-racking stories on the subject, causing
keener mental suffering to those vitally concerned than words can tell.
Yet it is easily proved to be nothing more or less than a perniciously
sensational newspaper production, too utterly false, too cruelly
misleading, to merit credence. Evidently, it was written without
malice, but in ignorance, and by some warmly clad, well nourished
person, who did not know the humanizing effect of suffering and sorrow,
and who may not have talked with either a survivor or a rescuer of the
Donner Party.

Stated in brief, the result of the disaster to the party in the
mountains was as follows:

The total number of deaths was thirty-six, as follows: fourteen in the
mountains while en route to the settlement; fourteen at camp near
Donner Lake; and eight at Donner's Camp.

The total number who reached the settlement was forty-five; of whom
five were men, eight were women, and thirty-two were children.

The family of James F. Reed and that of Patrick Breen survived in
unbroken numbers. The only other family in which all the children
reached the settlement was that of Captain George Donner.

Fourteen of the eighty-one souls constituting the Donner Party were
boys and girls between the ages of nineteen and twelve years;
twenty-six ranged from twelve years to a year and a half; and seven
were nursing babes. There were only thirty-four adults,—twenty-two men
and twelve women.

Of the first-named group, eleven survived the disaster. One youth died
en route with the Forlorn Hope; one at the Lake Camp; and one at Bear
Valley in charge of the First Relief.

Twenty of the second-named group also reached the settlements. One died
en route with the First Relief; two at Donner's Camp (in March,
1847); two at Starved Camp, in charge of the Second Relief; and one at
the Lake Camp (in March).

Two of the seven babes lived, and five perished at the Lake Camp. They
hungered and slowly perished after famine had dried the natural flow,
and infant lips had drawn blood from maternal breasts.

The first nursling's life to ebb was that of Lewis Keseberg, Jr., on
January 24, 1847.[21] His grief-stricken mother could not be comforted.
She hugged his wasted form to her heart and carried it far from camp,
where she dug a grave and buried it in the snow.

Harriet McCutchen, whose mother had struggled on with the Forlorn Hope
in search of succor, breathed her last on the second of February, while
lying upon the lap of Mrs. Graves; and the snow being deep and hard
frozen, Mrs. Graves bade her son William make the necessary excavation
near the wall within their cabin, and they buried the body there, where
the mother should find it upon her return. Catherine Pike died in the
Murphy cabin a few hours before the arrival of food from the settlement
and was buried on the morning of February 22.[22]

Photograph by Lynwood Abbott. ALDER CREEK

DENNISON'S EXCHANGE AND THE PARKER HOUSE, SAN FRANCISCO

Those were the only babes that perished before relief came. Does not
the fact that so many young children survived the disaster refute the
charges of parental selfishness and inhumanity, and emphasize the
immeasurable self-sacrifice, love, and care that kept so many of the
little ones alive through that long, bitter siege of starvation?

Mrs. Elinor Eddy, who passed away in the Murphy cabin on the seventh of
February, was the only wife and mother called by death, in either camp,
before the arrival of the First Relief. Both Patrick Breen's diary and
William G. Murphy,
then a lad of eleven years, assert that Mrs. Eddy
and little Margaret, her only daughter, were buried in the snow near
the Murphy cabin on the ninth of February. Furthermore, the Breen Diary
and the death-list of the Donner Party show that not a husband or
father died at the Lake Camp during the entire period of the party's
imprisonment in the mountains.[23]

How, then, could that First Relief,
or either of the other relief
parties see—how could they even have imagined that they saw—"wife
sitting at the side of her husband who had just died, mutilating his
body," or "the daughter eating her father," or "mother that of her
children," or "children that of father and mother"? The same questions
might be asked regarding the other revolting scenes pictured by the
Star.

The seven men who first braved the dangers of the icy trail in the work
of rescue came over a trackless, ragged waste of snow, varying from ten
to forty feet in depth,[24] and approached the camp-site near the lake
at sunset. They halloed, and up the snow steps came those able to drag
themselves to the surface. When they descended into those cabins, they
found no cheering lights. Through the smoky atmosphere, they saw
smouldering fires, and faced conditions so appalling that words forsook
them; their very souls were racked with agonizing sympathy. There were
the famine-stricken and the perishing, almost as wasted and helpless as
those whose sufferings had ceased. Too weak to show rejoicing, they
could only beg with quivering lips and trembling hands, "Oh, give us
something to eat! Give us something to drink! We are starving!"

True, their hands were grimy, their clothing tattered, and the floors
were bestrewn with hair from hides and bits of broken bullock bones;
but of connubial, parental, or filial inhumanity, there were no signs.

With what deep emotion those seven heroic men contemplated the
conditions in camp may be gathered from
Mr. Aguilla Glover's own notes,
published in Thornton's work:

Feb. 19, 1847. The unhappy survivors were, in short, in a condition
most deplorable, and beyond power of language to describe, or
imagination to conceive.

The emigrants had not yet commenced eating the dead. Many of the
sufferers had been living on bullock hides for weeks and even that
sort of food was so nearly exhausted that they were about to dig up
from the snow the bodies of their companions for the purpose of
prolonging their wretched lives.

Thornton's work contains the following statement by a member of one of
the relief corps:

On the morning of February 20,[25] Racine Tucker, John Rhodes, and
Riley Moutrey went to the camp of George Donner eight miles distant,
taking a little jerked beef. These sufferers (eighteen) had but one
hide remaining. They had determined that upon consuming this they
would dig from the snow the bodies of those who had died from
starvation. Mr. Donner was helpless, Mrs. Donner was weak but in
good health, and might have come to the settlement with this party;
yet she solemnly but calmly determined to remain with her husband
and perform for him the last sad offices of affection and humanity.
And this she did in full view that she must necessarily perish by
remaining behind. The three men returned the same day with seven
refugees[26] from Donner Camp.

John Baptiste Trubode has distinct recollections of the arrival and
departure of Tucker's party, and of the amount of food left by it.

He said to me in that connection:

"To each of us who had to stay in camp, one of the First Relief Party
measured a teacupful of flour, two small biscuits, and thin pieces of
jerked beef, each piece as long as his first finger, and as many pieces
as he could encircle with that first finger and thumb brought together,
end to end. This was all that could be spared, and was to last until
the next party could reach us.

"Our outlook was dreary and often hopeless. I don't know what I would
have done sometimes without the comforting talks and prayers of those
two women, your mother and Aunt Elizabeth. Then evenings after you
children went to sleep, Mrs. George Donner would read to me from the
book[27] she wrote in every day. If that book had been saved, every one
would know the truth of what went on in camp, and not spread these
false tales.

"I dug in the snow for the dead cattle, but found none, and we had to
go back to our saltless old bullock hide, days before the Second Relief
got to us, on the first of March."

The journal, herbarium, manuscript, and drawings of Mrs.
George Donner were not among the goods delivered at the Fort by the
Fallon Party, and no trace of them was ever found.

APPENDIX II

THE REED-GREENWOOD PARTY, OR SECOND RELIEF—REMINISCENCES OF WILLIAM G.
MURPHY—CONCERNING NICHOLAS CLARK AND JOHN BAPTISTE.

On the third of March, 1847, the Reed-Greenwood, or Second Relief Corps
(excepting Nicholas Clark) left camp with the following refugees:
Patrick Breen, Margaret Breen (his wife), Patrick Breen, Jr., Simon
Breen, James Breen, Peter Breen, Isabella Breen, Solomon Hook, Mary
Donner, Isaac Donner, Mrs. Elizabeth Graves, Nancy Graves, Jonathan B.
Graves, Franklin W. Graves, Jr., Elizabeth Graves, Jr., Martha J. Reed,
and Thomas K. Reed. The whole party, as has been already told, were
forced into camp about ten miles below the summit on the west side of
the Sierras, by one of the fiercest snow-storms of the season.

All credit is due Mr. and Mrs. Breen for keeping the nine helpless
waifs left with them at Starved Camp alive until food was brought them
by members of the Third Relief Party. Mr. Breen's much prized diary
does not cover the experiences of that little band in their struggle
across the mountains, but concludes two days before they started. After
he and his family succeeded in reaching the Sacramento Valley, he gave
his diary (kept at Donner Lake) to Colonel George McKinstrey for the
purpose of assisting him in making out his report to Captain Hall,
U.S.N., Sloop of War Warren, Commander Northern District of
California.

James F. Reed of the Reed-Greenwood Party, the second to reach the
emigrants, has been adversely criticised from time to time, because he
and six of his men returned to Sutter's Fort in March with no more than
his own two children and Solomon Hook, a lad of twelve years, who had
said that he could and would walk, and did.

Careful investigation, however, proves the criticism hasty and unfair.
True, Mr. Reed went over the mountains with the largest and best
equipped party sent out, ten well furnished, able-bodied men. But
returning he left one man at camp to assist the needy emigrants.

The seventeen refugees whom he and nine companions brought over the
summit comprised three weak, wasted adults, and fourteen emaciated
young children. The prospect of getting them all to the settlement,
even under favorable circumstances, had seemed doubtful at the
beginning of the journey. Alas, one of the heaviest snow-storms of the
season overtook them on the bleak mountain-side ten miles from the tops
of the Sierra Nevadas. It continued many days. Food gave out, death
took toll. The combined efforts of the men could not do more than
provide fuel and keep the fires. All became exhausted. Rescuers and
refugees might have perished there together had the nine men not
followed what seemed their only alternative. Who would not have done
what Reed did? With almost superhuman effort, he saved his two
children. No one felt keener regret than he over the fact that he had
been obliged to abandon at Starved Camp the eleven refugees he had
heroically endeavored to save.

In those days of affliction, it were well nigh impossible to say who
was most afflicted; still, it would seem that no greater destitution
and sorrow could have been meted to any one than fell to the lot of
Mrs. Murphy at the lake camp. The following incidents were related by
her son, William G. Murphy, in an address to a concourse of people
assembled on the shore of Donner Lake in February, 1896:

I was a little more than eleven years of age when we all reached
these mountains, and that one-roomed shanty was built, where so many
of us lived, ate, and slept. No!--Where so many of us slept,
starved, and died! It was constructed for my mother and seven
children (two being married) and her three grandchildren, and
William Foster, husband of her daughter Sarah.

Early in December when the Forlorn Hope was planned, we were almost
out of provisions; and my mother took the babes from the arms of
Sarah and Harriet (Mrs. Pike) and told them that she would care for
their little ones, and they being young might with William (Foster)
and their brother Lemuel reach the settlement and return with food.
And the four became members of that hapless band of fifteen.

Mr. Eddy being its leader, his wife and her two children came to
live with us during his absence. When my eldest brother, on whom my
mother depended, was very weak and almost at death's door, my mother
went to the Breens and begged a little meat, just a few mouthfuls—I
remember well that little piece of meat! My mother gave half of it
to my dying brother; he ate it, fell asleep with a hollow death
gurgle. When it ceased I went to him—he was dead—starved to death
in our presence. Although starving herself, my mother said that if
she had known that Landrum was going to die she would have given him
the balance of the meat. Little Margaret Eddy lingered until
February 4, and her mother until the seventh. Their bodies lay two
days and nights longer in the room with us before we could find
assistance able to bury them in the snow. Some days earlier Milton
Elliot, weak and wandering around, had taken up his abode with us.
We shared with him the remnant of our beef hides. We had had a lot
of that glue-making material. But mark, it would not sustain life.
Elliot soon starved to death, and neighbors removed and interred the
body in the snow beside others.

Catherine Pike, my absent sister's baby, died on the eighteenth of
February, only a few hours before the arrival of the First Relief.
Thus the inmates of our shanty had been reduced to my mother, my
sister Mary, brother Simon, Nioma Pike, Georgie Foster, myself, and
little Jimmy Eddy.

When the rescuers decided they would carry out Nioma Pike, and that
my sister Mary and I should follow, stepping in the tracks made by
those who had snowshoes, strength seemed to come, so that I was able
to cut and carry to my mother's shanty what appeared to me a huge
pile of wood. It was green, but it was all I could get.

We left mother there with three helpless little ones to feed on
almost nothing, yet in the hope that she might keep them alive until
the arrival of the next relief.

Many of the survivors remember that after having again eaten food
seasoned with salt, the boiled, saltless hides produced nausea and
could not be retained by adult or child.

I say with deep reverence that flesh of the dead was used to sustain
the living in more than one cabin near the lake. But it was not used
until after the pittance of food left by the First Relief had long been
consumed; not until after the wolves had dug the snow from the graves.
Perhaps God sent the wolves to show Mrs. Murphy and also Mrs. Graves
where to get sustenance for their dependent little ones.

Both were widows; the one had three, and the other four helpless
children to save. Was it culpable, or cannibalistic to seek and use the
only life-saving means left them? Were the acts and purposes of their
unsteady hands and aching hearts less tender, less humane than those of
the lauded surgeons of to-day, who infuse human blood from living
bodies into the arteries of those whom naught else can save, or who
strip skin from bodies that feel pain, to cover wounds which would
otherwise prove fatal?

This was our second meeting since that memorable morning of March 2,
1847, when he went in pursuit of the wounded mother bear, and was left
behind by the relief party. We spoke long and earnestly of our
experience in the mountains, and he wished me to deny the statement
frequently made that, "Clark carried a pack of plunder and a heavy
shotgun from Donner's Camp and left a child there to die." This I can
do positively, for when the Third Relief Party took Simon Murphy and us
"three little Donner girls" from the mountain camp, not a living being
remained, except Mrs. Murphy and Keseberg at the lake camp, and my
father and mother at Donner's Camp. All were helpless except my mother.

The Spring following my interview with Nicholas Clark,
John Baptiste
came to San Jose, and Mr. McCutchen brought him to talk with me. John,
always a picturesque character, had become a hop picker in hop season,
and a fisherman the rest of the year. He could not restrain the tears
which coursed down his bronzed cheeks as he spoke of the destitution
and suffering in the snow-bound camps; of the young unmarried men who
had been so light-hearted on the plains and brave when first they faced
the snows. His voice trembled as he told how often they had tried to
break through the great barriers, and failed; hunted, and found
nothing; fished, and caught nothing; and when rations dwindled to
strips of beef hide, their strength waned, and death found them ready
victims. He declared,

The hair and bones found around the Donner fires were those of
cattle. No human flesh was used by either Donner family. This I
know, for I was there all winter and helped get all the wood and
food we had, after starvation threatened us. I was about sixteen
years old at the time. Our four men died early in December and were
buried in excavations in the side of the mountain. Their bodies were
never disturbed. As the snows deepened to ten and twelve feet, we
lost track of their location.

When saying good-bye, he looked at me wistfully and exclaimed: "Oh,
little Eliza, sister mine, how I suffered and worked to help keep you
alive. Do you think there was ever colder, stronger winds than them
that whistled and howled around our camp in the Sierras?"

He returned the next day, and in his quaint, earnest way expressed
keenest regret that he and Clark had not remained longer in camp with
my father and mother.

"I did not feel it so much at first; but after I got married and had
children of my own, I often fished and cried, as I thought of what I
done, for if we two men had stayed, perhaps we might have saved that
little woman."

His careworn features lightened as I bade him grieve no more, for I
realized that he was but a boy, overburdened with a man's
responsibilities, and had done his best, and that nobly. Then I added
what I have always believed, that no one was to blame for the
misfortunes which overtook us in the mountains. The dangers and
difficulties encountered by reason of taking the Hastings Cut-off had
all been surmounted—two weeks more and we should have reached our
destination in safety. Then came the snow! Who could foresee that it
would come earlier, fall deeper, and linger longer, that season than
for thirty years before? Everything that a party could do to save
itself was done by the Donner Party; and certainly everything that a
generous, sympathizing people could do to save the snow-bound was done
by the people of California.

APPENDIX III

THE REPORT OF THOMAS FALLON—DEDUCTIONS—STATEMENT OF EDWIN
BRYANT—PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES.

The following is the report of Thomas Fallon, leader of the fourth
party to the camps near Donner Lake:

Left Johnson's on the evening of April 13, and arrived at the lower
end of Bear River Valley on the fifteenth. Hung our saddles upon
trees, and sent the horses back, to be returned again in ten days to
bring us in again. Started on foot, with provisions for ten days and
travelled to head of the valley, and camped for the night; snow from
two to three feet deep. Started early in the morning of April 15 and
travelled twenty-three miles. Snow ten feet deep.

April 17. Reached the cabins between twelve and one o'clock.
Expected to find some of the sufferers alive. Mrs. Donner and
Keseberg[28] in particular. Entered the cabins, and a horrible scene
presented itself. Human bodies terribly mutilated, legs, arms, and
skulls scattered in every direction. One body supposed to be that of
Mrs. Eddy lay near the entrance, the limbs severed off, and a
frightful gash in the skull. The flesh was nearly consumed from the
bones, and a painful stillness pervaded the place. The supposition
was, that all were dead, when a sudden shout revived our hopes, and
we flew in the direction of the sound. Three Indians who had been
hitherto concealed, started from the ground, fled at our approach,
leaving behind their bows and arrows. We delayed two hours in
searching the cabins, during which we were obliged to witness sights
from which we would have fain turned away, and which are too
dreadful to put on record. We next started for Donner's camp,
eight miles distant over the mountains. After travelling about
half-way, we came upon a track in the snow which excited our
suspicion, and we determined to pursue. It brought us to the camp of
Jacob Donner, where it had evidently left that morning. There we
found property of every description, books, calicoes, tea, coffee,
shoes, percussion caps, household and kitchen furniture, scattered
in every direction, and mostly in water. At the mouth of the tent
stood a large iron kettle, filled with human flesh cut up. It was
from the body of George Donner. The head had been split open, and
the brain extracted therefrom; and to the appearance he had not been
long dead—not over three or four days, at most. Near-by the kettle
stood a chair, and thereupon three legs of a bullock that had been
shot down in the early part of winter, and snowed upon before it
could be dressed. The meat was found sound and good, and with the
exception of a small piece out of the shoulder, whole, untouched. We
gathered up some property, and camped for the night.

April 18. Commenced gathering the most valuable property, suitable
for our packs; the greater portion had to be dried. We then made
them up, and camped for the night.

April 19. This morning Foster, Rhodes, and J. Foster started, with
small packs, for the first cabins, intending from thence to follow
the trail of the person that had left the morning previous. The
other three remained behind to cache and secure the goods
necessarily left there. Knowing the Donners had a considerable sum
of money we searched diligently but were unsuccessful. The party for
the cabins were unable to keep the trail of the mysterious
personage, owing to the rapid melting of the snow; they therefore
went directly to the cabins and upon entering discovered Keseberg
lying down amid the human bones, and beside him a large pan full of
fresh liver and lights. They asked him what had become of his
companions; whether they were alive, and what had become of
Mrs. Donner.
He answered them by stating that they were all dead. Mrs.
Donner, he said, had, in attempting to cross from one cabin to
another, missed the trail and slept out one night; that she came to
his camp the next night very much fatigued. He made her a cup of
coffee, placed her in bed, and rolled her well in the blankets; but
next morning she was dead. He ate her body and found her flesh the
best he had ever tasted. He further stated that he obtained from her
body at least four pounds of fat. No trace of her body was found,
nor of the body of Mrs. Murphy either. When the last company left
the camp, three weeks previous, Mrs. Donner was in perfect health,
though unwilling to leave her husband there, and offered $500.00 to
any person or persons who would come out and bring them in, saying
this in the presence of Keseberg, and that she had plenty of tea and
coffee. We suspected that it was she who had taken the piece from
the shoulder of beef on the chair before mentioned. In the cabin
with Keseberg were found two kettles of human blood, in all,
supposed to be over two gallons. Rhodes asked him where he had got
the blood. He answered, "There is blood in dead bodies." They asked
him numerous questions, but he appeared embarrassed, and equivocated
a great deal; and in reply to their asking him where Mrs. Donner's
money was, he evinced confusion, and answered that he knew nothing
about it, that she must have cached it before she died. "I haven't
it," said he, "nor money nor property of any person, living or
dead." They then examined his bundle, and found silks and jewellery,
which had been taken from the camp of Donners, amounting in value to
about $200.00. On his person they discovered a brace of pistols
recognized to be those of George Donner; and while taking them from
him, discovered something concealed in his waistcoat, which on being
opened was found to be $225.00 in gold.

Before leaving the settlement, the wife of Keseberg had told us that
we would find but little money about him; the men therefore said to
him that they knew he was lying to them, and that he was well aware
of the place of concealment of the Donners' money. He declared
before Heaven he knew nothing concerning it, and that he had not the
property of any one in his possession. They told him that to lie to
them would effect nothing; that there were others back at the cabins
who unless informed of the spot where the treasure was hidden would
not hesitate to hang him upon the first tree. Their threats were of
no avail. He still affirmed his ignorance and innocence. Rhodes took
him aside and talked to him kindly, telling him that if he would
give the information desired, he should receive from their hands
the best of treatment, and be in every way assisted; otherwise, the
party back at Donner's Camp would, upon arrival, and his refusal to
discover to them the place where he had deposited this money,
immediately put him to death. It was all to no purpose, however, and
they prepared to return to us, leaving him in charge of the packs,
and assuring him of their determination to visit him in the morning;
and that he must make up his mind during the night. They started
back and joined us at Donner's Camp.

April 20. We all started for Bear River Valley, with packs of one
hundred pounds each; our provisions being nearly consumed, we were
obliged to make haste away. Came within a few hundred yards of the
cabins and halted to prepare breakfast, after which we proceeded to
the cabin. I now asked Keseberg if he was willing to disclose to me
where he had concealed that money. He turned somewhat pale and again
protested his innocence. I said to him, "Keseberg, you know well
where Donner's money is, and damn you, you shall tell me! I am not
going to multiply words with you or say but little about it. Bring
me that rope!" He then arose from his hot soup and human flesh, and
begged me not to harm him; he had not the money nor goods; the silk
clothing and money which were found upon him the previous day and
which he then declared belonged to his wife, he now said were the
property of others in California. I told him I did not wish to hear
more from him, unless he at once informed us where he had concealed
the money of those orphan children; then producing the rope I
approached him. He became frightened, but I bent the rope around his
neck and as I tightened the cord, and choked him, he cried out that
he would confess all upon release. I then permitted him to arise. He
still seemed inclined to be obstinate and made much delay in
talking. Finally, but without evident reluctance, he led the way
back to Donner's Camp, about ten miles distant, accompanied by
Rhodes and Tucker. While they were absent we moved all our packs
over the lower end of the lake, and made all ready for a start when
they should return. Mr. Foster went down to the cabin of Mrs.
Murphy, his mother-in-law, to see if any property remained there
worth collecting and securing; he found the body of young Murphy who
had been dead about three months with his breast and skull cut
open, and the brains, liver, and lights taken out; and this
accounted for the contents of the pan which stood beside Keseberg
when he was found. It appeared that he had left at the other camp
the dead bullock and horse, and on visiting this camp and finding
the body thawed out, took therefrom the brains, liver, and lights.

Tucker and Rhodes came back the next morning, bringing $273.00 that
had been cached by Keseberg, who after disclosing to them the spot,
returned to the cabin. The money had been hidden directly underneath
the projecting limb of a large tree, the end of which seemed to
point precisely to the treasure buried in the earth. On their return
and passing the cabin, they saw the unfortunate man within devouring
the remaining brains and liver left from his morning repast. They
hurried him away, but before leaving, he gathered together the bones
and heaped them all in a box he used for the purpose, blessed them
and the cabin and said, "I hope God will forgive me what I have
done. I could not help it; and I hope I may get to heaven yet!" We
asked Keseberg why he did not use the meat of the bullock and horse
instead of human flesh. He replied he had not seen them. We then
told him we knew better, and asked him why the meat on the chair had
not been consumed. He said, "Oh, it is too dry eating; the liver and
lights were a great deal better, and brains made good soup!" We then
moved on and camped by the lake for the night.

April 21. Started for Bear River Valley this morning. Found the snow
from six to eight feet deep; camped at Yuma River for the night. On
the twenty-second travelled down Yuma about eighteen miles, and
camped at the head of Bear River Valley. On the twenty-fifth moved
down to lower end of the valley, met our horses, and came in.

The account by Fallon regarding the fate of the last of the Donners in
their mountain camp was the same as that which Elitha and Leanna had
heard and had endeavored to keep from us little ones at Sutter's Fort.

VIEW IN THE GROUNDS OF THE HOUGHTON HOME IN SAN JOSE

THE HOUGHTON RESIDENCE IN SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA

It is self-evident, however, that the author of those statements did
not contemplate that reliable parties
[29] would see the Donner camps
before prowling beasts, or time and elements, had destroyed all proof
of his own and his party's wanton falsity.

It is also plain that the Fallon Party did not set out expecting to
find any one alive in the mountains, otherwise would it not have taken
more provisions than just enough to sustain its own men ten days? Would
it not have ordered more horses to meet it at the lower end of Bear
Valley for the return trip? Had it planned to find and succor survivors
would it have taken it for granted that all had perished, simply
because there was no one in the lake cabins, and would it have delayed
two precious hours in searching the lake camp for valuables before
proceeding to Donner's Camp?

Had the desire to rescue been uppermost in mind, would not the sight of
human foot-tracks on the snow half way between the two camps have
excited hope, instead of "suspicion," and prompted some of the party to
pursue the lone wanderer with kindly intent? Does not each succeeding
day's entry in that journal disclose the party's forgetfulness of its
declared mission to the mountains? Can any palliating excuse be urged
why those men did not share with Keseberg the food they had brought,
instead of permitting him to continue that which famine had forced upon
him, and which later they so righteously condemned?

Is there a single strain of humanity, pathos, or reverence in that
diary, save that reflected from Keseberg's last act before being
hurried away from that desolate cabin? Or could there be a falser,
crueler, or more heartless account brought to bereaved children than
Fallon's purported description of the father's body found in Donner's
Camp?

Here is the statement of Edwin Bryant, who with General Kearney and
escort, en route to the United States, halted at the deserted cabins
on June 22, 1847, and wrote:

The body of (Captain) George Donner was found in his own camp about
eight miles distant. He had been carefully laid out by his wife, and
a sheet was wrapped around the corpse. This sad office was probably
the last act she performed before visiting the camp of Keseberg.[30]

After considering what had been published by The California Star, by
Bryant, Thornton, Mrs. Farnham, and others, I could not but realize
Keseberg's peculiarly helpless situation. Without a chance to speak in
his own defence, he had been charged, tried, and adjudged guilty by his
accusers; and an excited people had accepted the verdict without
question. Later, at Captain Sutter's suggestion, Keseberg brought
action for slander against Captain Fallon and party. The case was tried
before Alcalde Sinclair,[31] and the jury gave Keseberg a verdict of
one dollar damages. This verdict, however, was not given wide
circulation, and prejudice remained unchecked. There were other
peculiar circumstances connected with this much accused man which were
worthy of consideration, notably the following: If, as reported,
Keseberg was in condition to walk to the settlement, why did the First
Relief permit him to remain in camp consuming rations that might have
saved others?

Messrs. Reed and McCutchen of the Second Relief knew the man on the
plains, and had they regarded him as able to travel, or a menace to
life in camp, would they have left him there to prey on women and
little children, like a wolf in the fold?

Messrs. Eddy and Foster of the Third Relief had travelled with him on
the plains, starved with him in camp, and had had opportunities of
talking with him upon their return to the cabins too late to rescue
Jimmy Eddy and Georgia Foster. Had they believed that he had murdered
the children, would those two fathers and the rest of their party have
taken Simon Murphy and the three little Donner girls and left Keseberg
alive in camp with lone, sick, and helpless Mrs. Murphy—Mrs. Murphy
who was grandmother of Georgia Foster, and had sole charge of Jimmy
Eddy?

The old Alcalde records are not in existence, but some of
the survivors of the party remember the circumstance; and Mrs. Samuel
Kybert, now of Clarkville, Eldorado County, was a witness at the trial.
C.F. McGlashan, 1879.

APPENDIX IV

LEWIS KESEBERG

In March, 1879, while collecting material for his "History of the
Donner Party," Mr. C.F. McGlashan, of Truckee, California, visited
survivors at San Jose, and coming to me, said:

"Mrs. Houghton, I am sorry that I must look to you and your sisters for
answers to the most delicate and trying questions relating to this
history. I refer to the death of your mother at the hand of Keseberg."

He was so surprised and shocked as I replied, "I do not believe that
Keseberg was responsible for my mother's death," that he interrupted
me, lost for a moment the manner of the impartial historian, and with
the directness of a cross-questioning attorney asked:

And when I replied, "We have no proofs. My mother's body was never
found," he continued earnestly,

"Why, I have enough evidence in this note book to convict that monster,
and I can do it, or at least arouse such public sentiment against him
that he will have to leave the State."

Very closely he followed my answering words, "Mr. McGlashan, from
little girlhood I have prayed that Lewis Keseberg some day would send
for me and tell me of my mother's last hours, and perhaps give a last
message left for her children, and I firmly believe that my prayer will
be granted, and I would not like you to destroy my opportunity. You
have a ready pen, but it will not be used in exact justice to all the
survivors, as you have promised, if you finish your work without giving
Keseberg also a chance to speak for himself."

After a moment's reflection, he replied, "I am amazed; but your wish in
this matter shall be respected."

The following evening he wrote from San Francisco:

You will be glad to know that I have put Harry N. Morse's detective
agency of Oakland upon the track of Keseberg, and if found, I mean
to take steps to obtain his confession.

In less than a week after the foregoing, came a note from him which
tells its own story.

SACRAMENTO, Midnight, April 4, 1879

MRS. E.P. HOUGHTON,

DEAR MADAM:—

Late as it is, I feel that I ought to tell you that I have spent the
evening with Keseberg. I have just got back, and return early
to-morrow to complete my interview. By merest accident, while
tracing, as I supposed, the record of his death, I found a clue to
his whereabouts. After dark I drove six miles and found him. At
first he declined to tell me anything, but somehow I melted the mood
with which he seemed enwrapped, and he talked freely.

He swears to me that he did not murder your mother. He declares it
so earnestly that I cannot doubt his veracity. To-morrow I intend
plying him closely with questions, and by a rigid system of cross
examination will detect the false-hood, if there is one, in his
statement. He gives chapter after chapter that others never knew. I
cannot say more to-night, but desire that you write me (at the
Cosmopolitan) any questions you might wish me to ask Keseberg, and
if I have not already asked them, I will do so on my return from San
Francisco.

C.F. MCGLASHAN.

After his second interview with Keseberg and in response to my urgent
appeal for full details of everything relating to my parents, Mr.
McGlashan wrote:

I wish you could see him. He will talk to either you or me at any
time, unless other influences are brought to bear upon him. If I
send word for him to come to Sacramento, he will meet me on my
return. If you and your husband could be there on Thursday or Friday
of this week, I could arrange an interview at the hotel that would
be all you could wish. I asked him especially if he would talk to
you, and he said, "Yes."

I dared not tell you about my interview until I had your permission.
Even now, I approach the task tremblingly.

Your mother was not murdered. Your father died, Keseberg thinks,
about two weeks after you left. Your mother remained with him until
the last and laid him out tenderly, as you know.

The days—to Keseberg—were perfect blanks. Mrs. Murphy died soon
after your departure with Eddy, and he was left alone—alone in his
cabin—alone with the dead bodies which he could not have lifted
from the floor, because of his weakness, even had he desired. The
man sighs and shudders, and great drops of agony gather upon his
brows as he endeavors to relate the details of those terrible days,
or recall their horrors. Loneliness, desolation was the chief
element of horror. Alone with the mutilated dead!

One night he sprang up in affright at the sound of something moving
or scratching at a log outside his cabin. It was some time before he
could understand that it was wolves trying to get in.

One night, about two weeks after you left, a knock came at his door,
and your mother entered. To this lonely wretch her coming seemed
like an angel's. She was cold and wet and freezing, yet her first
words were, that she must see her children. Keseberg understood that
she intended to start out that very night, and soon found that she
was slightly demented. She kept saying, "O God! I must see my
children. I must go to my children!" She finally consented to wait
until the morning, but was determined that nothing should then
prevent her lonely journey. She told Keseberg where her money was
concealed, she made him solemnly promise that he would get the money
and take it to her children. She would not taste the food he had to
offer. She had not tasted human flesh, and would hardly consent to
remain in his foul and hideous den. Too weak and Chilled to move,
she finally sank down on the floor, and he covered her as best he
could with blankets and feather bed, and made a fire to warm her;
but it was of no avail, she had received her death-chill, and in the
morning her spirit had passed heavenward.

I believe Keseberg tells the truth. Your mother watched day and
night by your father's bedside until the end. At nightfall he ceased
to breathe, and she was alone in the desolate camp, where she
performed the last sad ministrations, and then her duty in the
mountains was accomplished. All the smothered yearnings of maternal
love now burst forth with full power. Out into the darkness and
night she rushed, without waiting for the morning. "My children, I
must see my children!"

She arrived at Keseberg's cabin, overwrought mentally, overtaxed
physically, and chilled by the freezing night air. She was eager to
set forth on her desperate journey without resting a moment. I can
see her as he described her, wringing her hands and exclaiming over
and over again, "I must see my children!"

The story told by Mrs. Farnham and others about finding your
mother's remains, and that of Thornton concerning the pail of blood,
are unquestionably false. She had been dead weeks, and Keseberg
confessed to me that no part of her body was found by the relief
(Fallon) party.

My friend, I have attempted to comply with your request. More than
once during this evening I have burst into tears. I am sorry almost
that I attempted so mournful a task, but you will pardon the pain I
have caused.

Keseberg is a powerful man, six feet in height, with full bushy
beard, thin brown locks, and high forehead. He has blue eyes that
look squarely at you while he talks. He is sometimes absent-minded
and at times seems almost carried away with the intensity of his
misery and desolation.

He speaks and writes German, French, Spanish, and English; and his
selection of words proves him a scholar. When I first asked him to
make a statement which I could reduce to writing he urged: "What is
the use of making a statement? People incline to believe the most
horrible reports concerning a man; they will not credit what I say
in my own defence. My conscience is clear. I am an old man, and am
calmly awaiting my death. God is my judge, and it long ago ceased to
trouble me that people shunned and slandered me."

He finally consented to make the desired statement, and in speaking
of your family he continued: "Some time after
Mrs. George Donner's
death, I thought I had gained sufficient strength to redeem the
pledge I had made her before her death. I went to Alder Creek Camp
to get the money. I had a difficult journey. The wagons of the
Donners were loaded with tobacco, powder, caps, school-books, shoes,
and dry goods. This stock was very valuable. I spent the night
there, searched carefully among the bales and bundles of goods, and
found five hundred and thirty-one dollars. Part of this sum was
gold, part silver. The silver I buried at the foot of a pine tree, a
little way from camp. One of the lower branches of another tree
reached down close to the ground, and appeared to point to the spot.
I put the gold in my pocket, and started back to my cabin; got lost,
and in crossing a little flat the snow suddenly gave way, and I sank
down almost to my arm-pits. After great exertion I raised myself out
of a snow-covered stream, and went round on a hillside and continued
my journey. At dark, and completely exhausted, and almost dead, I
came in sight of the Graves's cabin, and sometime after dark
staggered into my own. My clothes were wet, and the night was so
cold that my garments were frozen stiff. I did not build a fire nor
get anything to eat, just rolled myself up in the bed-clothes, and
shivered; finally fell asleep, and did not waken until late in the
morning. Then I saw my camp was in most inexplicable confusion;
everything about the cabin was torn up and scattered about, trunks
broken open; and my wife's jewellery, my cloak, my pistol and
ammunition was missing. I thought Indians had been there. Suddenly I
heard human voices. I hurried up to the surface of the snow, and saw
white men approaching. I was overwhelmed with joy and gratitude. I
had suffered so much and so long, that I could scarcely believe my
senses. Imagine my astonishment upon their arrival to be greeted,
not with a 'Good-morning' or a kind word, but with a gruff, insolent
demand, 'Where is Donner's money?'

"I told them they ought to give me something to eat, and that I
would talk with them afterwards; but no, they insisted that I should
tell them about Donner's money. I asked who they were, and where
they came from, but they replied by threatening to kill me if I did
not give up the money. They threatened to hang or shoot me. At last
I told them that I had promised Mrs. Donner that I would carry her
money to her children, and I proposed to do so, unless shown some
authority by which they had a better claim. This so exasperated them
that they acted as though they were going to kill me. I offered to
let them bind me as a prisoner, and take me before Alcalde Sinclair
at Sutter's Fort, and I promised that I would then tell all I knew
about the money. They would listen to nothing, however, and finally
I told them where they would find the silver, and gave them the
gold. After I had done this they showed me a document from Alcalde
Sinclair, by which they were to receive a certain proportion of all
moneys and properties which they rescued. Those men treated me with
great unkindness. Mr. Tucker was the only one who took my part or
befriended me. When they started over the mountains, each man
carried two bales of goods. They had silks, calicoes, and delaines
from the Donners, and other articles of great value. Each man would
carry one bundle a little way, lay it down, and come back and get
the other bundle. In this way they passed over the snow three times.
I could not keep up with them, because I was so weak, but managed to
come up to their camp every night."

Upon receipt of this communication I wrote Mr. McGlashan from San Jose
that I was nerved for the ordeal, but that he should not permit me to
start on that momentous journey if his proposed arrangements were at
all doubtful, and that he should telegraph me at once.

Alas! my note miscarried; and, believing that his proposal had not met
my approval, Mr. and Mrs. McGlashan returned to Truckee a day earlier
than expected. Two weeks later he returned the envelope, its postmarks
showing what had happened.

It was not easy to gain the consent of my husband to a meeting with
Keseberg. He dreaded its effect on me. He feared the outcome of the
interview.

However, on May 16, 1879, he and I, by invitation, joined Mr. and Mrs.
McGlashan at the Golden Eagle Hotel in Sacramento. The former then
announced that although Keseberg had agreed by letter to meet us there,
he had that morning begged to be spared the mortification of coming to
the city hotel, where some one might recognize him, and as of old,
point the finger of scorn at him. After some deliberation as to how I
would accept the change, Mr. McGlashan had acceded to the old man's
wish, that we drive to the neat little boarding house at Brighton next
morning, where we could have the use of the parlor for a private
interview. In compliance with this arrangement we four were at the
Brighton hotel at the appointed time.

Mr. McGlashan and my husband went in search of Keseberg, and after some
delay returned, saying:

"Keseberg cannot overcome his strong feeling against a meeting in a
public house. He has tidied up a vacant room in the brewery adjoining
the house where he lives with his afflicted children. It being Sunday,
he knows that no one will be about to disturb us. Will you go there?"

I could only reply, "I am ready."

My husband, seeing my lips tremble and knowing the intensity of my
suppressed emotion, hastened to assure me that he had talked with the
man, and been impressed by his straightforward answers, and that I need
have no dread of meeting or talking with him.

When we met at his door, Mr. McGlashan introduced us. We bowed, not as
strangers, not as friends, nor did we shake hands. Our thoughts were
fixed solely on the purpose that had brought us together. He invited us
to enter, led the way to that room which I had been told he had swept
and furnished for the occasion with seats for five. His first sentence
made us both forget that others were present. It opened the way at
once.

"Mr. McGlashan has told me that you have questions you wish to ask me
yourself about what happened in the mountain cabin."

Still standing, and looking up into his face, I replied: "Yes, for the
eye of God and your eyes witnessed my mother's last hours, and I have
come to ask you, in the presence of that other Witness, when, where,
and how she died. I want you to tell me all, and so truly that there
shall be no disappointment for me, nor remorse and denials for you in
your last hour. Tell it now, so that you will not need to send for me
to hear a different story then."

I took the chair he proffered, and he placed his own opposite and
having gently reminded me of the love and respect the members of the
Donner Party bore their captain and his wife, earnestly and feelingly,
he told me the story as he had related it to Mr. McGlashan.

Then, before I understood his movement, he had sunk upon his knees,
saying solemnly,

"On my knees before you, and in the sight of God, I want to assert my
innocence."

I could not have it thus. I bade him rise, and stand with me in the
presence of the all-seeing Father. Extending my upturned hand, I bade
him lay his own right hand upon it, then covering it with my left, I
bade him speak. Slowly, but unhesitatingly, he spoke:

"Mrs. Houghton, if I had murdered your mother, would I stand here with
my hand between your hands, look into your pale face, see the
tear-marks on your cheeks, and the quiver of your lips as you ask the
question? No, God Almighty is my witness, I am innocent of your
mother's death! I have given you the facts as I gave them to the Fallon
Party, as I told them at Sutter's Fort, and as I repeated them to Mr.
McGlashan. You will hear no change from my death-bed, for what I have
told you is true."

There, with a man's honor and soul to uncover, I had scarcely breathed
while he spoke. I watched the expression of his face, his words, his
hands. His eyes did not turn from my face; his hand between mine lay as
untrembling as that of a child in peaceful sleep; and so, unflinchingly
Lewis Keseberg passed the ordeal which would have made a guilty man
quake.

I felt the truth of his assertion, and told him that if it would be any
comfort to him at that late day to know that Tamsen Donner's daughter
believed him innocent of her murder, he had that assurance in my words,
and that I would maintain that belief so long as my lips retained their
power of speech.

Tears glistened in his eyes as he uttered a heartfelt "Thank you!" and
spoke of the comfort the recollection of this meeting would be to him
during the remaining years of his life.

Before our departure, Mr. McGlashan asked Keseberg to step aside and
show my husband the scars left by the wound which had prevented his
going to the settlement with the earlier refugees. There was a mark of
a fearful gash which had almost severed the heel from the foot and left
a troublesome deformity. One could easily realize how slow and tedious
its healing must have been, and Keseberg assured us that walking caused
excruciating pain even at the time the Third Relief Corps left camp.

His clothing was threadbare, but neat and clean. One could not but feel
that he was poor, yet he courteously but positively declined the
assistance which, privately, I offered him. In bidding him good-bye, I
remarked that we might not see one another again on earth, and he
replied pathetically, "Don't say that, for I hope this may not be our
last meeting."

I did not see Keseberg again. Years later, I learned that he had passed
away; and in answer to inquiries I received the following personal note
from Dr. G.A. White, Medical Superintendent of the Sacramento County
Hospital:

Lewis Keseberg died here on September 3, 1895; aged 81 years. He
left no special message to any one. His death was peaceful.